


Instinctive

by adrianna_m_scovill



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 00:52:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17254568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrianna_m_scovill/pseuds/adrianna_m_scovill
Summary: Barba has amnesia





	Instinctive

“He’s on holiday break, now? You taking him to work with you?”

Benson smiled. “Lucy’s meeting me at the precinct,” she said.

“Thought maybe you were starting his training early. Have him on track to be the youngest detective,” Barba joked. They were walking along the sidewalk, with Noah a few yards ahead of them, jumping over cracks and small patches of dirty snow.

Benson rolled her eyes. “I’m hoping he decides to be a…”

“Lawyer?”

“Scientist. Pianist. I don’t know, economist.”

“So it has to end in _ist_?”

“I just want him to be safe,” she said, and Barba grew serious.

“Hey, I get it,” he answered. He bumped his arm against hers, offering an encouraging smile. “Maybe he’ll be a florist.”

“Free flowers and no one shooting at him? I think I’ve just settled on his career.”

Barba chuckled. “If anyone can convince him, you can.” He glanced sideways at her. “Your son shouldn’t be the only one giving you flowers, though.”

She opened her mouth, but before she could answer, her phone rang. She met Barba’s eyes as she answered the call. “ _Can you_ —?” she mouthed, pointing toward Noah, and Barba nodded, walking after the boy while she stopped to talk. “Fin?” she said. “Yeah, no, I’m almost there. What’s up?”

Barba strolled behind Noah, watching the boy hop and skip along the icy sidewalk. He could hear Benson talking behind him; she didn’t seem overly concerned, so it must not be an emergency. Barba glanced up at the sky. It looked like it was going to be a nice day, and it was relatively warm for December.

He headed toward a waste basket at the edge of the sidewalk to toss his empty coffee cup.

“Mommy, look!” Noah called behind him. The boy sounded agitated, and Barba turned quickly, his gaze landing on Noah as the boy darted forward into the street. Barba started forward without thinking. He didn’t know what the boy had seen, what he was after, but Barba saw the yellow taxi coming and broke into a run. He heard Benson shout her son’s name, knew that she was running, too, and that she would never get there in time.

For a few heart-stopping moments, Barba thought _he_ wouldn’t get there in time, either. The cabbie hit his brakes, but it was too late. Noah stopped and turned, throwing up a hand that would do no good to protect him. Everything seemed to be going in slow motion, and Barba could see the scene playing out before him. With Barba’s forward momentum, he had no hope of snatching Noah out of the way, there was no time. If the skidding taxi hit the boy, it would mow him down.

Barba grabbed the boy’s coat and threw him forward. Even as he saw Noah falling toward the pavement, Barba felt the car slam into his right side. His legs were swept out from under him and he rolled up, smashing into the windshield, and as the car screeched to a halt, he tumbled over the side and dropped to the pavement. He didn’t feel the pain, or hear the screams.

 

*       *       *

 

“He’s got a gash on the back of his head that’s swollen but not as bad as it looks, and one on his forehead that needed a few stitches.”

“He bled a lot,” Benson muttered, feeling ill at the memory. She wasn’t squeamish about blood—how could she be, at this point?—but it was different when it was a loved one who was injured. Now that she knew he was alive and awake, her hands had begun to tremble. She stuffed them in her pockets, fighting the urge to pace before the doctor.

“He’s got a broken forearm—a clean break, it should heal quickly. It’s in a cast, but that shoulder had to be set, so it’s also in a sling. He’s complained of pain in his hip, but it’s just a bad bruise. He’s lucky nothing else is broken. However…”

Benson’s stomach twisted in fear. “What?” she asked into the doctor’s hesitation.

“He’s shown some cognitive impairment since regaining consciousness. Some…memory loss.”

“Like amnesia?” she asked skeptically.

“Retrograde, yes, but we’re not sure how extensive yet. Hopefully you can help with that.”

“How?”

“Well, he knows his name, his parents’ names. He knows he went to Harvard Law. He couldn’t tell us his current address or phone number, or today’s date. Memory can be tricky. I’m sure you’ve seen enough movies where a doctor says something like ‘the human brain is a mystery.’ We’re waiting on the results from the CT and the neurologist, but in the meantime it might be helpful just to see a familiar face. He’s lucid right now, but we do have him on morphine for the pain so don’t be alarmed if he starts to drift off. I assure you, he’s being closely monitored.”

“But he’s okay,” she said, refusing to voice it as a question because she couldn’t acknowledge a possibility that he might not be alright. She knew it would be a long time before she could close her eyes without being haunted by the images of him rolling over the hood of the car, the sound of the impact and screams, the sight of him, twisted and bloody and unconscious on the pavement.

The sound of Noah calling his name. The roar of blood in her ears as she’d fumbled for a pulse, praying desperately.

She swallowed the lump rising in her throat.

“His physical injuries should heal quickly. He doesn’t smoke, does he?”

She shook her head. “Not anymore, not for years,” she said. “His only real vices are coffee and scotch. And snacking,” she added after a moment.

The doctor smiled. “It’s important to keep him as calm as possible. He’s been agitated, which is normal considering his confusion and pain. He’s also having short-term memory loss, so if he repeats himself or forgets something you just said, be patient.”

“Of course,” she said. “I just need to see him.” _I just need to make sure he’s alright_.

 

*       *       *

 

Benson let out a breath when she saw him: awake, alert. Alive. Her heart ached for him, for his pain and confusion, and she wanted nothing more than to cross the room and wrap her arms around him.

Barba’s gaze slid from the doctor to Benson and back, and a small frown settled into his brow. He had stitches in the gash over his eye, as the doctor had warned, and a bruised scrape on his cheek; his face was abnormally pale, and he looked diminished in the white hospital gown. He was sitting propped against a couple of pillows with the blanket bunched at his waist. His left arm was casted and in a sling, and an IV needle was taped to the back of his right hand.

“You have a visitor, Mr. Barba,” the doctor said cheerfully. “Do you know who this is?” He’d explained to Benson that Barba was aware of the gaps in his memory, and agitated by them. He was also aware of why he was in the hospital, although he’d lost some of the details a couple of times and had to be reminded.

Barba looked Benson over, taking in her badge and gun. His tongue darted across his lower lip and he swallowed. “We work together,” he said.

 _He’s bluffing_ , she realized. _He doesn’t recognize me_. She tried not to let that hurt. He had a head injury, it wasn’t as though he could control his reaction to the trauma. “That’s right,” she said, forcing a smile. “How are you feeling, Rafa?”

Confusion rippled across his features before he quickly hid it away.

 _It’s the nickname_ , she thought. _The familiarity._ And it wasn’t just confusion she saw lurking in his eyes; there was fear there, as well, though he was doing his best to keep it hidden. She wanted to take him in her arms and comfort him, but that would only further confuse him. She knew she had to give him time to try to make sense of everything.

“Like I got hit by a car,” he said with a wry twist of his lips.

She smiled. “That taxi didn’t stand a chance,” she told him. She walked toward the bed slowly, not wanting to alarm him. “You saved my son’s life,” she said. Her eyes were burning, but she blinked against the sting, forcing the tears back.

“Your son,” Barba answered quietly, and she could see him trying to process, trying to _remember_.

“That’s right. We were walking on the sidewalk and Noah darted out into traffic and you—you saved him.”

“We were walking together.” He said it as a statement, but the question was clear in his eyes.

“I know you’re scared,” she said quietly, and he stared at her, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “The memory loss is only temporary.” She glanced at the doctor, silently daring him to disagree with her. He wisely kept his mouth closed. “No matter how confused you are right now, I hope you can trust me when I say you’re not alone, Rafael.” Barba nodded once, a tentative dip of his chin.

“If you’re feeling up to it, Mr. Barba, Lieutenant Benson has some pictures she’d like to show you.”

Benson could see Barba turning her name over in his mind, examining it, looking for something familiar. “Okay,” he said quietly, watching as she pulled a chair closer to the side of his bed. Benson sat and scrolled through her phone, pulling up the first picture. She turned the screen toward Barba, and his gaze slid from her face to the image. “That’s my mother,” he said, his forehead wrinkling.

“You recognize her, that’s good,” the doctor said.

Barba looked up at him, his frown deepening. “Of course I recognize my _mother_ ,” he said. “She’s…” He faltered, and Benson could sense his growing agitation as he picked at the edge of his blanket.

“She’s on a cruise,” she said quietly.

“On a cruise,” Barba repeated, glancing at her before his gaze skipped back to the doctor.

“Two weeks. She left yesterday but I’ll call and let her know what’s going on.”

“You’ll call her,” he said, quickly processing the idea. Then, as a question: “On a cruise?”

“You bought the trip for her and a friend. You said she’s been working too hard since your—” She broke off, unsure if he knew that his grandmother had passed away. She scrolled to another picture and held the phone up.

“That’s Ben Stone,” Barba said, frowning. For a moment, Benson was confused; Barba wasn’t even looking at the phone.

“No, this is Detective—” She stopped when Barba pointed toward the muted television hanging high on the wall past the foot of his bed. She looked at the screen. “Oh. That is—You remember Ben Stone?” she asked, once more trying to tamp down the irrational hurt feelings.

“Yeah, I work…uh…with the Brooklyn…DA…” He seemed to know that wasn’t correct, and she saw his hand curl into a fist on the blanket.

“Manhattan,” she corrected gently.

“Manhattan?” When she nodded, he turned his eyes back to the silenced news conference. “He’s still alive?” he asked.

“Stone?” She hesitated, confused. “Yes. Why—?”

“I had a dream I was at his funeral,” he said. He was staring hard at the TV screen. “And then I took a baby off life support and his son came to New York to prosecute me for murder.”

She was startled into a short laugh, and his green gaze landed on her face. “Why would you do that?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t, would I.”

“No,” she agreed. “You wouldn’t. Must be the head trauma,” she added, trying to keep her tone light.

He touched his tongue to his lip again, regarding her.

“Anyway, it was just a dream. Stone’s alive, and I’d know if you’d killed someone.”

The ghost of a smile played over his lips and he looked at her phone. “I don’t, uh…” He chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment. “A detective,” he said after several seconds of thought. He glanced at her face and back at the screen. “One of your detectives,” he added.

She wanted to reassure him that he didn’t need to bluff his way through, that he didn’t need to try so hard to hide his confusion from her. She didn’t want him to feel cornered, though. “Carisi,” she said. “Dominick Carisi, but he goes by Sonny.”

Barba nodded. “Detective Carisi,” he answered, checking her expression for confirmation. “And…” He looked at the next picture. “Detective…”

“Amanda Rollins.”

“Rollins. _Mi abuela esta muerte_ ,” he said, catching Benson completely off guard. “That’s what you almost said.”

“Yes,” she answered.

“I don’t remember, but…I still knew,” he said quietly, and she could see the pain in his eyes. “Why do I…remember some things but not…” He looked at the phone in her hand.

“The memory loss can be exacerbated by stress,” the doctor said. Benson had nearly forgotten he was in the room. “The things that cause you the most stress, like your job, for example.”

 _Me?_ Benson thought. _I cause him more stress than the death of his grandmother?_ Barba was watching her face, so she forced a reassuring smile to her lips. “Don’t worry,” she told him. “I promise you, you’ll get through this. Here, look.” She pulled up a photo of Barba and Noah together, in her living room. She’d taken it the week before when she’d stepped out of the bathroom to find Barba crouched down beside Noah on the floor, explaining to the boy the definition of _burden of proof_ —and kindly informing Noah that he couldn’t keep Eddie the Elephant locked up indefinitely without evidence and a trial.

Now, Barba reached his hand toward the image on her screen, stopping just shy of touching it with his fingertips. “That’s…” He hesitated, his eyes flicking up to her face. He read her expression. “Your son,” he said.

“Noah,” she agreed. “Who you saved today, Rafael.”

He looked at the photo again and drew his hand back, letting it settle to the blanket. “Are we…” He licked his dry lips but seemed unsure how to continue.

Benson set her phone on the edge of his bed and picked up the pitcher of water on the table, pouring some into the plastic cup. When she held it toward him, he took it without comment, sipping the lukewarm water while he eyed her over the rim of the cup.

“We’re friends,” she said quietly. “Noah calls you Uncle Rafa. He calls my detectives _Aunt_ and _Uncle_ , too, but you’re his favorite.”

“Where is he?” Barba asked. “He’s not hurt?”

“No. A few minor scrapes and bruises but nothing major, thanks to you. He’s with Amanda—Detective Rollins.”

She could see him struggling to find the words he wanted, and she suddenly realized with painful clarity what had been only abstractly apparent to her: he had no familiar faces around him, no one he recognized to help him sort through this quagmire. His mother was unavailable and his grandmother was gone, and he had no other family. Benson was in his room because she cared about him, because _she_ knew that he was her best friend, but _he_ didn’t know that.

“Rafa,” she said. She reached for his arm and stopped herself short, setting her fingers on the edge of his bed instead. He held the cup toward her, and she took it, grateful for something to do. “Is there someone you want me to call?” she asked as she set the cup beside the pitcher. “Someone you remember, to help you?”

“I don’t…” He swallowed convulsively, closing his eyes for a moment. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “I don’t know who I…if I’m in a…a…Jesus.” He raised his hand to his forehead, wincing at both the pull of the needle and the gash on his brow.

“You’re not dating anyone,” she said. She hesitated. The only people with whom he associated lately were from work—fellow lawyers, judges, cops. “You remember Ben Stone,” she suggested. “Or…what about Eddie?”

“Eddie?” he asked, lowering his hand to the bed and spearing her with his bright, tormented gaze. “Do you know Eddie?”

“I’ve met him,” she said. “I can call him if you want. Or anyone familiar.”

He was studying her, scrutinizing every angle of her face, and she tried not to squirm beneath his appraisal. She supposed he was looking for something familiar, and she offered a smile that she hoped was encouraging. “I don’t know,” he finally said, turning his gaze to his lap. “I can’t...I don’t—”

“Alright, Mr. Barba,” the doctor said. “Don’t get yourself worked up. We’ll have you feeling better in no time, we’ll just take things one step at a time.”

“Don’t work myself up,” Barba muttered with a quiet, humorless chuff of laughter. “I have whole books memorized, you know.” He was speaking in a low voice, staring at his fingers on the white blanket. “I once went thirty-six hours without sleeping and then got a perfect score on an exam. There’s a whole section of my brain filled with nothing but Latin words and phrases. I remember Tommy T giving me a bloody nose in second grade. I remember grade school, high school, law school. I didn’t remember about my grandmother until you started to say it, but—”

“Regaining memories is good,” the doctor interjected. “That’s why Lieutenant Benson is here, to help jog—”

“I’m here because we’re friends, because I care about you,” Benson said, and Barba glanced at her from the corner of his eye without turning his head. “We’ll figure this out.”

“I can’t remember whole years of my life,” he answered. “I remember now that she’s...gone, but I don’t remember the details. It’s more like a feeling than a memory. And I can’t...I can’t be out of control of my own mind like this.”

“Remember to stay calm, Mr. Barba.”

“I am calm,” Barba said, but he wasn’t; Benson could see him struggling to hold his composure together by a thread.

“The higher your heart rate, the worse your pain is going to be.”

Barba lifted his chin to glare at the doctor. “I don’t care about pain, I care about my _brain_ working,” he said. “Do you understand that I could lose _everything_? That everything I’ve done could be for _nothing_?”

“You’re not going to lose anything, Rafael,” Benson said, and his gaze swung back to her face. She saw the muscle in his jaw shift as he clenched his teeth. “You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. If anyone’s brain can figure out how to—”

“Look, I’m sorry,” he cut in, “but I don’t know you, alright? I don’t _remember_ you.”

“I know,” she answered. “It’s alright. You will.”

He shook his head. “How long have we known each other?”

“Six years.”

He shook his head again, swallowing. “I can’t do this. I need to be alone without everyone talking to me and—and—staring at me.”

“Okay,” she said. “Okay, Rafa, but I’m going to leave my card here on the table, and if you need anything, any time, you call me or have someone else call, okay? My cell number’s on the back. Any time, day or night, alright?”

“Sure,” he said. He was looking at his lap again. “Thanks.”

“I’ll be back in the morning.”

He didn’t answer, and she bit back all the other words she wanted to say; it would be selfish to saddle him with her emotions.

“Please be well,” she said quietly, turning away to hide the tears pooling in her eyes. She could feel him watching her as she made her way to the door, but when she glanced back from the opening, his gaze quickly shifted away.

 

*       *       *

 

Barba opened his eyes and blinked the ceiling into focus. His chest felt painfully tight, making it difficult to draw a deep breath. He knew the sensation clawing through him; he’d felt it before: panic. It temporarily overshadowed all of the pain in his battered body.

The physical pains were broad and deep, too deep for the morphine to really touch, and so he’d asked to be taken off the pain medication. If he were being honest with himself, he’d hoped maybe the pain, and the lack of drugs, would help clear his mind. But that had not been the case. If anything, the pain only made it more difficult to focus, and harder to sleep.

He _had_ been sleeping, though, finally. Now, his room was dark, lit only by the pale screens of monitors. The hospital felt preternaturally quiet, as though everyone had vanished and left him, stranded and alone, mired in a lonely fog of confusion. It was his third night in the hospital, and he didn’t feel like he was getting better. The nurses had memory exercises that they made him do throughout the day, and sometimes he couldn’t remember a word they’d just given him. It was terrifying, and it wasn’t getting better. There were whole years missing from his memory.

He closed his eyes against the burn of tears borne more from frustration than anything. He’d lost his grip on himself, and he didn’t know how to get it back.

 _I have to move on_. The words echoed in his mind like the taunting whisper of a ghost, there but not tangible. He knew it had been a dream, but the lingering panic was real, and his inability to ground himself was only making it worse. There was nothing familiar or comforting for him to grab hold of, no anchor.

The dream had changed since Lieutenant Benson’s initial visit to his room. Her face had crept into the nightmare—if it could be considered a nightmare, and the panic tightening his chest said it could be—and was now unshakable. He’d had the same dream three times. It always started the same, with Ben Stone’s funeral, and a Hamlet quote that Barba couldn’t quite remember when he woke; a vague battle for the rights of a terminally-ill infant, the details of which were shrouded in the clouds of a sleeping mind; Barba’s decision to take matters into his own hands, and a following trial that was brief and choppy in his mind, convoluted; a _not guilty_ verdict.

And then there was Lieutenant Benson, standing in front of him outside the courthouse, but Barba wasn’t inside his own body. He was watching the scene play out, watching as he said goodbye—watching himself walk away while she stood, cold, alone, crying on the sidewalk.

Each time he woke in the middle of this scene, his anxiety was worse than the time before. He wanted to call out to himself and had no idea what to say. His waking mind tried to grasp the details of the dream, and they danced in and out of focus, taunting him. He didn’t know if it was a product of his damaged brain, or a real memory.

Benson had been nothing but kind and patient during her visits. She cared about him; no one was that good an actor. She said they were friends, and he had no choice but to believe her in spite of his infuriating inability to remember. She clearly knew him well. She could read him, she’d known right away that he didn’t recognize her in spite of his attempt to bluff his way through, but she hadn’t called him on it. She’d been kind, sympathetic, helpful.

But…was there any truth to the nightmare? He didn’t know, and he hated that he didn’t know. He couldn’t ask her something like that, not without knowing if he’d hurt her. He had to figure out how to get his brain back in working order.

There had been a string of visitors over the past two days.

Eddie: it had been a relief, at first, to see someone he recognized, someone familiar. The relief faded back into confusion and anxiety, though, as Barba quickly realized that things had changed, that there was so much that he couldn’t remember about his recent past. Eddie was familiar, but the lines in his face weren’t, and neither was his apologetic body language.

Eddie told stories from their childhood; Barba remembered them and laughed in all the right places, but his sense of unease had only grown with each passing minute. Eventually, Eddie left, telling Barba to call if he needed anything.

Rita Calhoun: Barba had known her since law school, although they’d never really been friends. She was comforting in her familiarity if not demeanor—unlike Benson, Barba remembered her but, also unlike the lieutenant, Rita lacked the warm friendliness. She was kind, but brusque. He wouldn’t have expected anything else from her, and he was sincere when he thanked her for stopping by.

Three detectives, none of whom he’d recognized and whose names he couldn’t currently recall. A woman named Carmen who’d apparently been his assistant for years, and he’d felt his face heating when she realized he didn’t remember her.

Barba had insisted that he was fine when the doctor warned Benson that the succession of visitors might be too much—every time Barba struggled to access some elusive memory, it only made his head pound harder, and by the time Carmen left he was already feeling more than a little queasy from the headache and the throbbing in his shoulder, arm, and hip.

When he found himself once more alone with Lieutenant Benson, he closed his eyes, trying to draw a bracing breath. In spite of his assurances to the doctor, Barba could feel his anger rising in proportion to his pain and frustration. He didn’t want to take it out on the lieutenant but she was the only one in the room with him.

What he _wanted_ was to hit his head against the wall until his brain returned to normal.

“Lieutenant—” he’d started, but there was suddenly nothing but a blank space where her name had been moments before. The panic swelled within him without warning, threatening to drown him, and he found himself on the verge of hyperventilation.

“Benson,” she said quietly. “Olivia.”

He felt a surge of annoyance, and he latched onto it desperately to drive back the fear. “I don’t want to do this anymore,” he said. He knew he sounded petulant, like a cranky child, and that only made him angrier.

“I can get the doctor to give you something for the pain,” she said.

“I don’t want something for pain,” he snapped. “I want to be left alone.” He didn’t want her to read him, to recognize his pain and emotion; he didn’t want her to _know_ him when he couldn’t remember anything about her.

“Just give me five minutes for one more visitor,” she said.

He blinked, surprised. He hadn’t expected any pushback. She’d been nothing so far but accommodating and patient, and he’d expected her to acquiesce, perhaps even apologize for tiring him. For a few seconds, he wasn’t sure how to react, and the feeling of indecision galvanized his anger. He scowled at her; the motion pulled at the stitches in the swollen gash over his eye.

“No,” he said.

She raised her eyebrows. She clearly wasn’t used to being refused without a fight. Well, if there was one thing Barba remembered how to do, it was fight. “I know you’re sore and probably hungry,” she said. As if on cue, his stomach rumbled, and he felt blood rush to his face. He wasn’t sure if it was the heat of anger or embarrassment, so he chose to stick with his anger.

“Stop psychoanalyzing me,” he said. “You’re not my mother and while you say we’re friends, I’m finding it increasingly difficult to believe.” He regretted the words the moment he saw the hurt ripple across her features, but she had the emotion hidden almost before he’d registered it. “I know you’re trying to help,” he said, in an effort to temper the blow, but he was powerless to keep the anger from his voice. It was the only thing keeping him from plummeting into the well of cold, dark fear that was trying to swallow him. “But this isn’t helping. I need—”

“I’m sorry, Barba,” she said. He noted the switch to his surname but didn’t have time to puzzle through what it might mean before her next words hit him: “I need you to give me five more minutes, and then I’ll leave you alone for the night.”

 _Alone for the night_ , he thought, his heart rate automatically kicking into high gear. _I don’t want to be alone_. The dream would come again, pulling him from whatever restless, pain-riddled sleep he could manage. The darkness would surround him, the silence of the hallway would remind him of his loneliness. His brain would taunt him with the shadows of things he couldn’t remember.

He opened his mouth to tell her no— _again_. To repeat his desire to be left alone, this time with more force. To drive her from the room so he could panic in private. Before he could speak, she changed course.

“Please,” she said, stopping the words on his tongue. “I know you’re tired. I know this is hard. One more, as a favor to me, please. I’ll keep it short.”

“As a favor to _you_?” he said. _Why would I do you any favors? I don’t know you. I don’t particularly like you._ The words almost tumbled from his tongue before his battered brain realized how damaging they could be, how needlessly hurtful they would be to this woman who claimed to be his friend. He bit down on the inside of his cheek.

She tilted her head just a bit, and he saw it in her dark and watchful eyes: she knew what he’d been about to say, at least a general idea. Instead of commenting, she said, “Just a few minutes, I promise,” before turning toward the door. She opened it and stepped into the hallway, holding the door ajar with one hand.

“God damn it,” he muttered under his breath. He was too tired to be polite to yet another cautiously-smiling face that he didn’t recognize. “I said I don’t want to do this anymore,” he called toward her back. “What good is it doing anyone, you parading in a bunch of people I don’t—” He snapped his mouth shut when a little boy stepped into view.

“Hi, Uncle Rafa,” the kid said. He was clutching a stuffed elephant in his hands, held tightly against his own small chest as if for protection—whether for himself or the elephant, it wasn’t clear.

Barba knew he should know the kid’s name, he knew that the lieutenant had told him. He floundered through the darkness in his mind, searching, making his head pound and his stomach churn.

“It’s okay, Noah,” Benson said, with an encouraging nudge against the boy’s shoulder.

 _Noah_ , Barba thought, with a rush of gratitude for the woman that temporarily outweighed his annoyance with her. “Hello, Noah,” he said. He realized that he was still frowning, and he quickly smoothed his expression. _Don’t screw this up_ , he thought. _Don’t scar some poor kid who thinks you’re his honorary uncle by snapping at him that you don’t know who the hell he is._

“Are you okay?” Noah asked, making his way cautiously toward the bed as he eyed the cast and IV and stitches.

“Oh, you know me,” Barba said. _Don’t you?_ He resisted the urge to glance at the boy’s mother for guidance. “I’m tougher than…” He faltered, and the click of his throat sounded impossibly loud as he swallowed.

“Tougher than a taxi?” Noah giggled, and the sound of his laughter was jarring.

Barba smiled, but it felt foreign on his face, as though his muscles had managed to forget the gesture in just a couple of days. “Tougher than all the taxis in New York City,” he managed.

The boy giggled again, inching up to the edge of the bed.

“Honey, be careful of Rafa’s IV,” Benson started, but Barba shot her a quick glare and she fell silent. Her lips twitched in amusement, though, which was annoying. He forced himself to set the feeling aside for the moment.

“There was a pigeon, Uncle Rafa,” Noah said quietly, and his laughter was gone. In its place was an agitation that was evident in the way he was absently pulling at the elephant’s trunk. He lowered his eyes and his voice. “With a hurt wing,” he murmured.

Barba ran his tongue between his lips. “I don’t, um…” In spite of himself, he looked to the lieutenant for help. She mouthed the word _taxi_ , raising her eyebrows. Barba still wasn’t sure; his brain had never worked so slowly before, and he clenched his fists as tightly as the cast and IV would allow.

“I didn’t mean for you to get hurt,” Noah said. He raised his watery gaze to Barba’s face. “Momma said it wasn’t my fault but it was, I shouldna gone in the road.”

“Oh, hey,” Barba said, alarmed by the fat tears welling up in the boy’s eyes. “She’s right, it’s not your fault.” He again floundered for the kid’s name for a moment, but was thankfully able to snatch it out of the shadows. “I would’ve done the same thing, Noah.”

Noah sniffled, checking his expression for signs of dishonesty. “Really?” he asked.

“Are you kidding? A pigeon with a broken wing? Wouldn’t stand a chance against a cab. Unlike me,” he added, somehow managing a wink.

“You’re not mad at me?” Noah asked.

“How could I ever be mad at _you_?” Barba returned. This was a bluff—he fervently hoped that he’d never upset this kid or made him feel like a nuisance—but Noah, unlike his mother, didn’t seem to recognize the tactic. The boy’s expression and posture both showed relief, and Barba felt his own body relaxing at the sight. “You made the right call, _amigo_ ,” he said, wondering if there was some nickname that Noah was expecting him to use.

Noah moved closer until he was leaning against the side of the bed. “When do you get to go home?” he asked.

“Pretty soon, I think,” Barba answered. “And it’s a good thing, because the food here is awful. You don’t have a pizza on you, do you?” When Noah laughed and shook his head, Barba pretended to consider. “Hmm. French fries?” he suggested.

“I don’t have any food, silly,” Noah giggled.

 _Is that me?_ Barba wondered. _Silly Uncle Rafa?_ “That’s alright, I guess I can wait a bit longer,” he said.

“But I brought Eddie for you,” Noah told him.

Barba hesitated again. “Eddie,” he repeated. The boy held out the elephant, perching it on the edge of the bed, and Barba let out a soft breath. “Right, Eddie the Elephant,” he guessed.

“He can stay with you until you go home, so you don’t get lonely,” Noah said.

Barba lifted his hand to finger at the toy’s soft fur. “That’s very nice, but don’t you think he’d miss you too much?” he asked. He didn’t want to admit how tempting it was to cling to a stuffed toy for comfort.

“It’s okay, he trusts you,” Noah said, pushing the elephant gently up against Barba’s side.

Barba was horrified to feel the sting of tears behind his eyes. “Thanks,” he said, unable to manage anything else. On impulse, he reached out and touched his hand to Noah’s hair for a moment. The boy smiled at him, and Barba could do nothing but return the gesture.

“Okay, honey, time to let Rafa rest,” Benson said.

“Bye, Uncle Rafa,” Noah said.

“Bye, Noah,” Barba answered, relieved that the boy’s name was readily available this time. “Thanks for stopping by and lending me your friend, here.”

“My _amigo_ ,” Noah said, with an endearing little smile. He started to turn and hesitated, looking back at Barba. “Do you think the pigeon’s okay?” he asked. “I didn’t see it get away.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Barba assured him. He had no idea, of course. He might’ve seen the bird get flattened beneath a tire and not remember it, but he wasn’t about to say so.

“Good,” Noah smiled, clearly willing to take Barba at his word.

“Wait in the hall with Lucy and I’ll be right there,” Benson said, opening the door for her son to step outside. Once the two adults were alone, she met Barba’s eyes and he remembered how annoyed he was with her. “Thank you for making him feel better,” she said, unfazed by his glare. “He’s been worrying about you constantly but I was afraid to bring him in too soon.”

“Afraid I’d bite his head off?” he asked with a humorless smile.

“No,” she answered, giving him a pointed, knowing look that made him grind his teeth. “I know you don’t like me very much right now, Rafael, but whether you believe it or not, I only want what’s best for you. And I won’t stop pushing. That’s my job, whether you remember or not.”

“Your job is to annoy people?” he asked.

She smiled. “My job is to challenge you when you need to be challenged,” she answered.

“How much does the city pay you for that?”

“I’m tempted to say _not enough_ , but the truth is, bickering with you? I’d gladly do for free.”

He didn’t know how to respond to that, or how to feel about the wistfulness in her expression. He had so many questions and no ability to ask them. He wanted to apologize for being an ass and couldn’t find those words, either.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” she said.

“Thanks for the warning,” he muttered, earning a smile.

“Do you need anything before I leave?”

He shook his head, refusing to voice the snarky comment trapped behind his chapped lips.

“Then goodnight,” she told him. “Try not to be too rude to the nurses, alright?”

“I’m not rude,” he shot back. When she turned toward the door, he asked, “What happened to the bird?”

“I never saw it,” she answered. “I was on my phone, and Noah had gone a little bit ahead…” She trailed off, and the guilt was stamped plainly across her face. “By the time I got to you, I wasn’t looking for a bird.”

He nodded. Hesitated. Said: “It wasn’t your fault.”

She smiled again, but there was no amusement in the curve of her lips. “You don’t remember,” she said, not ungently.

“I’m aware,” he snapped. He drew a breath through his nose. “But I assume you didn’t tell him to run into the road and so far as I can tell, you didn’t push me in front of a taxi, so the guilt isn’t helping anything. All it’s doing is pissing me off.”

She laughed at that, and the sound surprised him. He felt a flutter in his stomach, and a feeling of _almost remembering_ ; it was maddening, like trying to think of a word and having it constantly dance out of reach; but this was more important than an elusive word—this was his _life_.

“Just further proof you’re going to be back to your old self in no time,” she said quietly. “Goodnight, Rafael.”

He didn’t answer, and he didn’t stop her again. He watched her disappear, watched the door swing softly closed.

That was hours ago. In spite of the pain, he’d finally managed to slip into a fitful sleep, and the dream had come as he’d known it would. Now: the panic tightening his chest, and the residual heartbreak of what was either a product of his imagination, or the ghost of a forgotten memory.

Lieutenant Benson. He could remember her name now, but he couldn’t trust that to hold. His short-term memory was unpredictable, and it only got worse when his pain flared and his emotions ran high. And something about her definitely made his emotions run high. Part of it was frustration at not being able to _remember_ , but that wasn’t all of it. Ever since waking in the hospital, he’d felt alone and vulnerable and in a near-constant state of fear; none of these were things to which he’d willingly admit, but she could see them no matter how stoic a face he tried to front.

Her kindness made him want to drop his defenses and give in, to accept her comfort. To _beg_ for her comfort, if necessary. But that impulse was foreign to him, and inexplicable while she was a stranger to him, so he tried to push her away instead. Her refusal to be driven out, to leave him to wallow alone, made his temper flare.

He closed his eyes. He had to ask her point-blank about the dream, about their relationship. So what if he offended her? He didn’t even know her. If, when he got his memories back, he realized he’d made a horrible mistake, he could cross that bridge. In the meantime, she couldn’t be more important to him than his own sanity, and he was clinging to that by the thinnest scrap of a thread.

 _If you drive her away, you’ll have no one_ , his mind whispered.

 _That’s not true,_ he countered, despising the niggling unease in his stomach _._ He’d talked to his mother on the phone—talking her _out_ of abandoning her cruise to fly home to NYC, assuring her he was perfectly fine. If she’d been able to see his face, she might’ve known he was lying, but he’d schooled his voice well enough to convince her.

And there was Eddie; sure, they weren’t as close as they’d once been, but that was life. Their lives had diverged like Frost’s roads, and Barba had taken the one—at least in his neighborhood—less traveled, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t turn to each other for help.

 _Who are you kidding?_ his thudding brain mocked. _You wouldn’t have had a clue how to get a hold of your own mother without the cop’s help. And Eddie? Everyone who’s come to visit you has done so because of her. You’d be completely alone. Go ahead, push her away if you want to know what it_ really _feels like to be alone._

He hated the hot tears that leaked from the corners of his closed eyes. He hated the self-pity. He hated the overwhelming sense of helplessness, of being unmoored on a dark sea.

He had to pee; he could do it alone, but without the morphine it would be a torturous trip. Getting out of bed, with his bruised hip, his sore muscles and useless arm—at least he’d argued his way into having the IV removed now that he was refusing pain meds.

He wasn’t _supposed_ to leave the bed without a nurse. They were worried about dizziness, weakness, about a potential fall, but what damage could he do? Maybe a fall on the linoleum would knock some sense back into his head. Or he could call for the on-duty nurse so they could hover in the doorway, watching him piss.

More tears slipped from his eyes and he cursed himself, clenching his hand into a fist by his hip. He shifted, trying in vain to find a comfortable position, and he felt a soft lump lodge itself beneath his hip.

Opening his eyes and frowning, he reached beneath the blanket and his fingers brushed something soft and plush. He tugged it free, cursing through his teeth at the protests from his body, and peered in the dimness at the stuffed elephant.

 _Eddie the Elephant_ , he thought. And then, with a familiar surge of alarm: _I forgot. I was just thinking about it and I already forgot until I saw it. Jesus Christ._

 _I’m gonna be sick_. He swallowed convulsively several times, leaning toward the edge of the bed on his elbow, now barely aware of the pain as he struggled against the bile rising to the back of his tongue. He was clutching the elephant in his fist, mashing its form between his fingers as he fought for control. He scrunched his eyes closed, concentrating on pulling breaths in and releasing them slowly. His skin was prickled with goosebumps.

 _Okay_ , he thought. _Okay. I’m okay._ He could remember the visit from the kid—her kid—Noah. Now, he could remember the boy lending him the elephant. He could even remember _remembering_ it when he’d first opened his eyes, but he’d forgotten in the few minutes between then and now. Surely that couldn’t be normal. Surely there must be something more seriously wrong than they’d realized, or at least than they’d let on.

 _It’s okay_. _I just need reminders. Like this toy. Something to help my brain until it heals._

 _Notes_ , he thought. He opened his eyes and looked around, but there was nothing within reach to write with or on. They hadn’t even given him his cell phone. He considered calling the nurse; he still needed to go to the bathroom, anyway, and surely they’d be willing to give him a pen and a pad of paper if he kept the scowl off his face while he asked.

“I don’t need help to take a fucking piss,” he muttered. The sound of his voice was jarring in the quietness of the room, and he winced, glancing around. Of course, there was no one to hear him.

He looked down at the elephant still clutched in his hand.

“What do you say, _Eduardo Elefante_?” he asked. “Wanna head to the head? Take a _pipí_ with your Uncle Rafa?” He laughed, closing his eyes. The anxiety was still churning in his stomach, but the tightness had left his chest. “I’ve lost my goddamn mind,” he muttered.

 

*       *       *

 

“This is ridiculous. I’m not a child _or_ an invalid.”

“It’s for your own safety, Mr. Barba.”

“I want to go _home_ ,” Barba shot back, leveling a glare at the doctor.

“I can’t release you unless I know you’ll have someone to help monitor your progress and watch for potential setbacks or complications.”

“I don’t need your permission to leave. Bring me something to sign. I’ve been here long enough.”

The doctor looked toward Benson for help, and Barba ground his teeth together. She didn’t have a say in whether or not he was allowed to go home. She didn’t have a say in _anything_.

Barba knew it was irrational to be angry with her for the gift she’d brought him that morning. It was the kindest and most thoughtful thing that anyone could’ve given him, and that _infuriated_ him. He’d had the idea himself, in the middle of the night. But by the time he’d stumbled back to his bed, dizzy and weak and full of pain after his spitefully-lone trip to the toilet, the thought had been washed away with the sweat on his brow.

And then she had the _nerve_ to walk into his hospital room at the break of day with a smile that certainly did _not_ make his stomach flutter in an unusual but pleasant way, and the _audacity_ to hand him a three-prong folder filled with neat, annotated pages of nearly every person in his goddamn _life_ , from his late grandparents to his assistant. And she’d been _bold_ enough to include highlights of his career, and his phone number and home address, and pretty much every goddamn thing that he could possibly need to know about himself or the people in his life.

So yeah, he knew his anger was irrational. He hadn’t been able to do it for himself, so she’d done it—without being asked, as though she’d read his mind in the middle of the night. He wanted to be angry. He needed to be angry.

“I want to go home,” he repeated, but his voice suddenly sounded small to his own ears, filled with the whine of desperation instead of the scratch of anger.

“Where is home, Rafael?” Benson asked quietly.

For several terrifying seconds his vision blurred, and his nose burned, and he could feel his chin beginning to wobble as though he were a child who’d just realized he could no longer see his parents in the crowd. “You put the address in the folder,” he said. He wanted to lace the words with customary bravado and knew he’d failed.

She moved toward him, and Barba—sitting on the edge of the bed in his hospital gown, trying not to shiver, trying not to _cry_ —looked at the kindness in her expression. His anger was gone. It had slipped away without warning, leaving him defenseless against the hollow ache of despair in his chest.

“I’ll take you to your apartment,” she said quietly. She paused, giving him time to consider what she’d left unspoken.

“But I won’t recognize it,” he muttered. He closed his eyes and was grateful that no tears escaped.

“Come home with me, Rafa,” she murmured, and he felt her hand ghost over his shoulder before disappearing. He opened his eyes to look at her. “Let me help you.”

“You mean take care of me,” he said.

“Every time I close my eyes, I see you lying in the street,” she told him, and he was startled by the tremor, by the _rawness_ , in her soft voice. He stared up at her. “I hear the sounds…” She shook her head. “I need to know you’re okay. Please, if you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me. Let me help you.”

“I hate this,” he said, his voice barely audible. He clenched his fist on his thigh.

“I know,” she answered. “I know you do. I promise you’ll get through it. And we can stop at your apartment, you can look around and pack anything you want to bring. It’ll be okay.”

“What about your kid?” he asked. “Won’t he be upset if I can’t…” He gestured helplessly toward his temple. “Remember him?”

“I’ll ask Rollins to watch him for a couple of days so you can have a quiet place to relax. Hopefully the headaches will be better by then.”

 _I’ve had quiet_ , he thought. _Too much of it_.

Looking at her face, he knew she expected to wear him down no matter how long it might take. He thought about arguing, but he was too tired and sore. It was easier to give in.

No matter what she might think, he wasn’t going to allow her to wait on him or coddle him, though. If she tried, he’d walk out her front door and never look back.

“Fine,” he said. He was glad he couldn’t find any smugness in her smile.

“I’ll have a nurse come in to help you get dressed,” the doctor said.

Barba sighed, unable to keep his shoulders from slumping in defeat.

“I’ll be back when you’re ready,” Benson said.

“Fine,” Barba repeated in a mutter.

 

*       *       *

 

He’d managed to regain a bit of fight, enough to cow the nurses who tried to force him into a wheelchair for the trip to the exit. He regretted it—there was something to be said for choosing one’s battles—but he wasn’t about to admit it.

He did alright hiding his limp at the start, but by the time they reached the sidewalk there was no disguising the agony involved in each step of his left foot. They swore his hip wasn’t broken, but the bruised hip was more painful than the broken arm and injured shoulder.

He could feel the sweat rolling down the middle of his back, sticking his shirt to his skin inside his coat. He was wearing scrubs given to him by the hospital. The indignity was nearly too much to bear, but the alternative—Lieutenant Benson going to his apartment to fetch him clean clothes down to his socks and _underwear_ —was even less tolerable. His coat had blood on the collar, but the wool was dark enough to hide it.

He knew he was pale and shiny with perspiration. He knew that his jaw was clenched against the pain. He knew that his breaths were labored and irregular. He knew that the lieutenant was worried he was going to collapse beside her.

She didn’t say so, or ask him if he wanted help. She was annoyingly watchful, though. She’d also pulled her car up so it was ready and waiting. He hated the gratitude he felt at the sight.

She opened the front door for him and he hesitated, his stomach squirming as he eyed the space and tried to reason out the least traumatic way to get his body into the seat. With his left arm in a sling, and the coat draped over it, he couldn’t brace himself. He could hold on above his head with his right hand, but he wasn’t sure he had enough strength left.

He couldn’t stand there with everyone staring at him, so he finally decided to just turn around, grit his teeth, bend his knees, and let gravity do its job. Getting into a car couldn’t possibly hurt as much as being hit by one.

As soon as he turned, however, she held out a hand. He looked at it, then up to her face. He expected sympathy or, worse, pity. What he saw instead was a challenge that made his jaw clench.

“Your stubbornness is one of my favorite things about you, Barba,” she said, arching an eyebrow. “But you’ve always been an expert at picking your battles.”

 _Get out of my head_ , he thought. For a moment, he thought he’d said the words aloud; she certainly seemed to have heard them, if the twitch of her lips was any indication. He considered, but he really wanted to get into the car before he fell over. He reached out and took her hand.

Her grip was strong and warm, and she immediately put her other hand at the back of his shoulder. “Bend your knees, I’ve got you,” she said, holding his gaze.

He didn’t really have much choice, and his body was more than ready to give in to the pull of the Earth, so he held onto her hand and folded himself backward. He tried to mentally brace himself for impact, but the trip down to the seat was remarkably easy. In barely the span of a breath, he was sitting, and he couldn’t contain his sigh of relief.

Benson released his hand and shoulder and straightened.

“Thanks,” he said, glancing up at her before carefully turning to drag his legs into the car. His hip cursed him for the effort, but it still felt better to be off his feet. Once his legs were inside, Benson pushed the door closed. He watched her walk around the front of the car, but he stared through the windshield when she slid into the driver’s seat.

“I’ve got your stuff in the back,” she said as she fastened her seatbelt. “I don’t know if the suit’s salvageable, the blood in the shirt collar _might_ come out and the jacket didn’t seem to be ripped. The pants are torn, though, and I don’t really know if your suits are mix-and-match.”

“Hmm,” he answered, unsure what to say. He watched out the window as she pulled away from the hospital.

“That was kind of a joke, I guess not a very good one,” she said.

“Sorry.”

“Listen, you don’t have to play nice with me, if I’m pissing you off, just tell me to shut up. I _might_ do it,” she said, shooting him a quick smile.

“I wouldn’t,” he answered, frowning. “And I’m not _pissed off_ ,” he added.

“I know you heard the doctor tell me to watch out for mood swings. That your frustration and disorientation could make you angry and even violent.”

“Yeah, well you told him you weren’t worried.”

“Not how he meant. But if you feel the need to, I don’t know, put your fist through a wall or something, I’d much rather you shout at me instead so you don’t hurt yourself.”

“When do you work?”

She laughed, making his frown darken. “Unfortunately for you, I’ve taken some time off to—”

“Babysit?”

“—help you. So if you were planning on making a break for it—”

“Am I a prisoner?”

“—you might find it difficult. But I promise not to smother you. You’ll have my bedroom and bathroom to yourself, I’ve already taken out everything I should need. I’ll be sleeping in Noah’s room, at least for a couple nights until we see if you feel up to him coming home.”

“And then?”

“I’ll either sleep with him or on the couch.”

“I can sleep on the couch.”

“So can I.”

“Does anyone else live there?”

“Just me and Noah.”

Something in her voice—an artificial sort of lightness—drew his attention, and he turned his head to regard her. She didn’t look at him, though. As she made a left-hand turn at the intersection, the city outside the windows seemed to require all of her attention.

“Have I ever told you to shut up?” he asked after a few seconds of silence.

She smiled and glanced at him. “Not in words, no,” she said, and he actually found himself smiling in response.

“I get the feeling not many people would dare,” he admitted.

Her smile seemed to tighten, which hadn’t been his intention. “Do I seem intimidating?” she asked. “Comes with the job, I suppose.”

“I didn’t mean it as an insult,” he said, picking nervously at the blue scrubs covering his thigh. “And anyway, you’ve been…nice to me, in spite of provocation. Although maybe you were just waiting to get me alone somewhere to cut me up into little pieces.”

To his relief, she laughed and looked over at him for a couple of seconds. He fidgeted. In spite of his mood swings, he didn’t want to offend her. “I’d miss out on a lot of free coffee,” she said.

This was a joke, but it was also an allusion to the life he’d forgotten, and Barba chewed his lip as he found his mind wandering back to the dream that had been plaguing him since the accident. _I have to move on_. If they’d been more than friends at some point, he couldn’t imagine what would’ve possessed him to walk away. She might very well have a dark side that he hadn’t seen in the past few days, or some overly annoying habits, but she had also shown herself to be kind, patient, and strong, and when she looked at him he got the feeling she would do anything to protect him. It wasn’t a feeling he could explain or deny. He didn’t want to give in to it, but it was there.

He didn’t want to admit how attractive he found her, either, even to himself, but his brain was too fragile to protect against itself.

He found that he was too embarrassed—or lacked the courage—to ask her if they’d dated. He was afraid her answer would be something like _of course not_. She might even look at him with pity in her brown eyes. Most likely, there was nothing more to his stupid dream than his brain playing tricks on him.

“Do you want to go to your apartment now?” she asked. “Or get something to eat and rest first?”

Her voice startled him from his musings, and he realized he’d given himself the dull thud of a now-familiar headache. “Oh, I…uh…”

“There are only a few steps to climb and obviously you can sit down and rest inside if you need.”

“Okay,” he said. “I…thought we were already going there.”

“Right. I just wasn’t sure if you were feeling up to it.”

“Oh,” he repeated. “I’m fine.”

She looked at him.

“There’s no sense making a separate trip,” he said, trying not to bristle. “Besides, I need to walk.”

“I know. I just don’t like seeing you in pain.” Before he could respond to that, she continued: “What about supper? Anything specific you want?”

“Anything as long as it includes green Jell-O,” he said.

Benson laughed. “Of course. Wouldn’t want you to go into withdrawal.”

“But really, whatever’s easiest. I guess you probably know what I like.”

“Much to your annoyance,” she said.

“Yes,” he agreed, and she laughed.

“Does it hurt to sit like this?” she asked.

“What? Oh. It’s alright.”

“I’ve got your prescription so just let me know if you need something. Is your headache getting worse?”

He sighed. “Only when I think,” he said.

“Lucky you have a hard head,” she joked.

“Hmm. Hardheaded—a thick skull, my father always said.” He sensed her looking at him, and he frowned out the windshield, surprised he’d mentioned his father so casually. “How’s your son?” he asked after a pause.

“Noah’s fine. He’s happy you’re staying at our place, and he said to let you know that if you get bored you can play with his Legos.”

Barba smiled. “Just the Legos?”

“He thinks they’re your favorite.”

“Hm. I never played with Legos, actually.”

“Well, you do now.”

He snorted. “I do?”

“Yes. I have pictures if you need proof.”

“Huh,” he said. “I can’t help wondering if I lost my memory or got knocked into some alternate reality.”

“I know you didn’t have much experience with kids before I adopted him, but you’ve come a long way over the years. There’s a reason you’re his favorite uncle. He thinks you’re hilarious.”

“I _am_ hilarious,” he said. “I know that much, at least.”

“You’re good with young victims, too. You treat kids like human beings, and sometimes adults don’t do that. It helps them trust you and open up.”

“I’m guessing I probably learned some tricks from you.”

“I’d love to take credit for your humanity, Rafael, but the best I can claim is sometimes tricking you into showing it.”

He laughed. It felt strange to laugh. Good, but strange. He looked out the window, watching the buildings pass, hoping something would feel familiar or jog his memory. He knew when they were getting close—not because he recognized the area, but because he could feel her watching him for a reaction. He frowned at the buildings, concentrating through the headache, but at first there was nothing. She slowed and stopped, and still nothing.

But then—

He lifted his hand and pointed.

“Yes,” she said, and her happiness was contagious. “See, I told you this is only temporary.”

He felt something like relief settling into him. He didn’t recognize the building, not really, but it was familiar—more a feeling than a memory—and he released a pent-up breath as he peered through the window.

He was limping pretty badly by the time they got inside, but his vague sense of relief remained. The apartment felt…not completely foreign, as he’d feared. Everything was placed intuitively and nothing looked like something he _wouldn’t_ own, although there was a framed drawing—presumably done by Noah—on top of his bookshelf that took him by surprise.

“Do you want to sit and rest?” she asked, watching him make his way toward the bedroom.

“No, let’s get this over with,” he answered through his teeth.

“Do you want me to help you pack?”

“No, I can find what I need,” he said. He flipped the bedroom lightswitch and looked around.

“You’re tired and sore and your head hurts, Barba, you’re not going to remember everything you—”

“I know how to pack,” he cut in, turning to glare at her.

“Fine. Just don’t forget to—”

“Okay, thanks,” he said, pushing the bedroom door closed. He felt a twinge of guilt, but it was mixed with a grim sense of satisfaction, and when he heard her muttering in the other room, he felt a trace of real humor in the twist of his lips.

 

*       *       *

 

The idea of taking a shower had been both tempting and exhausting; just the _thought_ of standing beneath the hot spray had made his muscles ache with fatigue and his hip throb in protest. In the end, he’d decided to take a bath, knowing it was probably a bad idea but too tired and cranky to deny himself the luxury of sinking into the stinging embrace of steaming water.

Sitting had proven difficult, and he’d fallen the last of the way with a hissed curse as water sloshed over the side of the bathtub and onto the rug. He’d immediately felt a surge of panic as he wondered how he was going to get himself back on his feet—he didn’t think his left shoulder would support his weight and there was nothing substantial on the right side of the tub with which to lever himself up—but he forced himself to relax into the heat. Surely the bath would loosen his muscles and ease his pains, and he would figure out what he needed to do when the time came.

He had plastic around his cast, but he still had to keep the arm out of the water, and the angle was a strain on his shoulder. He’d gotten the sling off without help, at least.

Benson had given him a clean towel and washcloth, but he’d left them beside the sink, and he sighed in annoyance. His brain was really failing him at every turn, and he _hated_ the feeling with every fiber of his being. The physical limitations, he could bear. The pain, he could tolerate. But being unable to remember the simplest of things? Unable to puzzle through the simplest of problems?

He leaned his head back, finding an angle that cradled the gash on his scalp in the valley between the porcelain enamel of the tub and the linoleum of the wall. He closed his eyes; he didn’t want to see the scrapes and bruises on his body, or the few extra pounds he was still sporting even after a Hospital Diet. His body now was as strange to him as his apartment: vaguely familiar, unrecognized but not un _fitting_.

He pulled in a breath and let it out slowly, running his fingers over the slight curve of his belly beneath the water. He’d apparently quit smoking—his stint in the hospital had wrought no symptoms of nicotine withdrawal, although he _had_ suffered some significant caffeine cravings—and the gray hair and deepened creases seemed to indicate he’d been under stress for a while. Given what he’d come to know of his job with SVU, that wasn’t surprising. He supposed a little extra weight was to be expected, and since he wasn’t romantically involved with anyone—

 _Romantically involved_ , his battered brain scoffed. _You don’t need your memories to know there’s no_ romance _in your life. You wouldn’t know what to do with it if you had it._

He shifted in an attempt to get comfortable, and sighed again as he found a position that relieved the pressure on both his hip and shoulder.

 _Romance is overrated_ , he thought. _Not to mention exhausting and…_ He struggled for an appropriate word to disparage the very idea of romance. _Unnecessary_ , he finally thought as he drifted to sleep.

He woke with a jolt some time later—how much time had passed, he couldn’t say, but the water had cooled and he was surprised Lieutenant What’s-Her-Face hadn’t pounded on the door demanding assurances that he was alive and well.

 _Olivia_ , he thought. _Benson_. He thought of the Olivia Newton-John poster he’d had on his bedroom wall as a teenager and immediately shoved the thought away, shifting his body with a wince and a groan. The hot water might’ve helped initially, but he’d been sitting in the same position, in the hard tub, for too long; he was even sorer and stiffer.

He had to get out, and soon. He grabbed the plastic cup from the corner of the tub, determined to wash his hair if nothing else. He sat up straighter with another grimace, his breath hitching at the catch of his abused joints.

He used the cup to pour water over his greasy hair until it was wetted, but the water stung the gash on his head and made him dread the thought of shampoo touching the raw area. His scalp was itchy, so he debated for a minute, trying to decide which was less bearable: the pain of washing, or the irritation of being unwashed.

 _I’ll take a shower in the morning_ , he thought. _Right now I just have to get out of this goddamn bathtub while I still can._

But he couldn’t, though. He tried to grit his teeth through the pain, but it wasn’t just a matter of pain tolerance. His body seemed legitimately _incapable_ of hefting itself out of the water, and panic was swelling in his chest after the third failed attempt.

 _This is ridiculous_ , he thought. _Just stand the fuck up_ —

“Rafael?”

He closed his eyes, barely suppressing a groan. He supposed _ignore her and she’ll go away_ was not a valid option, so he ground his teeth and said: “What?”

“Do you need help?”

He almost said no. His pride almost won out over self-preservation. “I’ll just fucking live here, in this bathtub,” he mumbled with self-loathing.

“I’m sorry?” she asked, and he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

 _Think of her as another nurse_ , he thought. _It’s no more humiliating than sponge baths in the hospital and being escorted to the bathroom._ He swallowed. It was different, and he couldn’t convince himself otherwise. _Fine, but...she’s a cop. She’s seen everything, probably._

“Barba?”

“Have, uh…” He stopped and licked his lips, glancing around for something, anything within reach to cover himself. He didn’t even have a washcloth—it mocked him from beside the sink, and he cursed himself again for being so unprepared. He eyed the little plastic cup that he’d used to pour water over his head and made a sound, somewhere between a laugh and a groan, at the thought. Staring at the cup, feeling his desperation growing, he said, “Have you seen me naked before?”

His face was burning even though the water was rapidly cooling around him. The silence on the other side of the door stretched for what felt like too long.

“You’re thinking hard, Lieutenant,” he said, doing his best to add a protective mask of sarcasm to his voice. “Glad to know it would be so memorable.” He paused. “Although I guess I can’t criticize anyone’s memory, can I?”

There was a soft sound that might be laughter, but he couldn’t be sure. “No,” she said. “I haven’t—and I’m not going to now.”

In spite of himself, he laughed. “Well, Lieutenant, I don’t know how _you_ typically bathe, but—”

“I believe that trust is instinctive,” she cut in. Her voice was quiet, but her words struck him silent. “You don’t remember a lot of things, Rafa, but I think you know whether or not you can trust me. So I’ll give you a minute to think about it and then, if you want, I can call someone else over to help you. One of my detectives, or someone you’ve never met, if you prefer. Or even your friend Eddie and you can add hot water while you wait.”

“You’re a pain in the fucking ass,” he said.

“Not the first time I’ve heard that,” she answered, and he could hear the smile in her voice.

He reminded himself that this wasn’t just difficult for _him_ ; she was doing her best to navigate uncharted territory, and she’d brought him into her home without hesitation. He had to stop punishing her for his own limitations. “From me?” he asked.

“A few times,” she answered. A pause. “A week.”

He snorted soft laughter, closing his eyes. He clenched his hand against his thigh. “I can’t stand up,” he admitted.

She didn’t answer; of course she’d already known that.

“You can come in,” he said. There was a soft click as she turned the knob, and the door opened silently. He looked at the cup, almost reached for it. _Trust is instinctive_ , he thought. “Trust is earned,” he said, a repudiation of her claim even though her words had settled into him as truth.

“Hmm,” she answered. “Yes. But there are different kinds—different levels—of trust. We all make a split-second judgement when we meet someone, our brains calculate risks, annotate details that our conscious minds don’t even register. And you and me? The things we’ve seen? The people we’ve met? We have better judgement than most, I’d say.” She was standing in the middle of the bathroom, her gaze steady on his face.

He rolled his eyes toward her, cursing the heat in his cheeks and the uselessness of his body and the blank spaces in his thoughts. “Do you actually like me, or am I being punished for some transgression I don’t remember?” he asked.

She smiled. “No, I like you,” she said quietly. “Is it alright if I touch you?”

“Do you have telekinetic powers?” he asked.

Still smiling, she answered, “Afraid not. But I’ll lift you out.”

He glared at her. “You realize I outweigh you.”

“You don’t need to be embarrassed.”

He raised an eyebrow. “About getting fat?” he asked. “How could I be when I don’t remember it happening?”

“About needing help,” she said. He bit back his snarky comment, unsure even what it would’ve been. She moved closer. “Just think of me as one of the nurses.”

“You’re not a nurse,” he said, clenching his hand into a fist in the water. “And I wasn’t—” _buck ass naked_ , he thought but didn’t finish aloud. He ground his teeth, glancing sideways at her as she bent nearer. Her eyes were on his face but he was having difficulty meeting her gaze. “Let’s just get this over with,” he said.

“Can I help wash your hair?” she asked.

“I took care of it,” he said. She leaned closer, and he heard her faint sniff. He shifted, turning his head to look at her. “Did you just smell my hair?” he asked incredulously.

“Did you just lie to me?” she returned, raising her eyebrows.

“I—No,” he said, giving her the coldest look he could muster while his cheeks were flaming. “I said I took care of it.”

“By pouring water over your head?”

He didn’t answer.

She reached out a hand like she was going to brush his wet hair back from his forehead, and he panicked.

“I don’t want you to wash my hair,” he said, and she drew her fingers back.

“Alright,” she said. “But I’m going to touch you—I’ll get you on your feet and leave you alone to get dressed, alright?”

He made a gruff and vague sound of assent, glaring at the water.

“I’m going to need better consent than that, Barba,” she said, surprising him.

He snorted, forcing himself to meet her steady gaze. He considered pointing out that she’d just _told_ him she was going to do it. Instead, he said, “Can we stop talking about it and—just do it. Look, I’m sorry, _Christ_ this is humiliating—” He broke off as she shifted closer.

She put her left knee on the edge of the bathtub and leaned forward, slipping her left arm underneath his right and around his back. He felt her hand, warm and firm, her fingers near his spine.

“Turn this way and put your good arm around me,” she said quietly.

He reached around her with his right arm, swallowing with difficulty. She was close, so close; he could smell her hair, and the scent was confusingly familiar. He could feel the heat of her body, he could feel the lines of her bra and he almost curled his fingers away.

She put her right hand under his injured arm and put her chin on his shoulder, startling him into a hissed breath. Her hair was covering his nose and mouth, now.

“Push with your legs but don’t strain, Raf,” she murmured near his ear, and his skin was suddenly prickled with gooseflesh that had nothing to do with the chill of the bathwater. “I promise I’ve got you.”

She tightened her grip; he could feel her muscles shift as she started to pull at his wet body, and he reacted instinctively, flexing his thighs and pressing his fingertips into her back. The pressure of her chin at his shoulder was uncomfortable but not enough to actually _hurt_ the sore muscles there. The rest of his body, however, cried out in protest as she started to pull him to his feet.

He grunted in pain and for a moment, he didn’t think he’d be able to get his shaky legs beneath himself. He felt a surge of alarm, tightening his hold around her, and almost told her to let him go back down.

“Almost there,” she said. He could hear the strain in her voice but he could also feel the strength in her body, and when she repeated “I’ve got you,” he believed her in spite of his distrust for his own body.

The sound of the water releasing him was loud. Her hair was tickling his face. His thighs were trembling. He cursed, feeling sweat pop out on his brow in spite of his chill.

He was grateful for the pain, because it distracted him from the things he shouldn’t be thinking about—the scent of her hair and perfume, the warmth of her skin, the flex of her muscles, the strength of her grip, the feeling of her breath at his ear and her chin at his shoulder. He was naked and without a single defense—not so much as a sarcastic word on his knotted tongue. He was completely at her mercy.

He was on his feet in a matter of seconds, the bathwater sluicing off his body. He dropped his arms but she didn’t immediately release him, waiting to make sure his legs were steady.

His heart was slamming in his chest, and he wanted to convince himself that it was from the exertion. It suddenly seemed as though her arms were lingering a few seconds too long, though, as though her grip had tightened rather than loosening. He could feel her heartbeat, and he closed his eyes, wanting desperately to submit to the comfort of her embrace.

His right arm had re-risen and was hovering at her side, his fingers curving toward her in the air, and then she was slowly drawing back, lifting her chin from his shoulder and sliding her hands from his wet skin. He once more dropped his arm to his side and turned his face from the tickle of her hair.

He wasn’t going to look at her; the sting of humiliation was too sharp and fresh—but he suddenly found their gazes locked and he was powerless to look away. Her cheeks were flushed, her dark eyes bright.

“You’re okay,” she said. It wasn’t a question, and he got the feeling the words meant far more than ‘you’re on your feet.’ Her hands were on his upper arms. After a moment, she let go of him completely and took a half step back.

His gaze slipped downward. Her shirt was wet, plastered to her chest, outlining the ridges of her bra and the swell of her breasts and the dip of her navel.

The hot flush of desire that had settled into his stomach was unwelcome and undeniable. Her lips were parted, and he wanted to kiss them. He couldn’t remember ever wanting anything more, and the impulse nearly knocked him off his feet. He actually felt himself sway, and she started to reach for his arm.

“I’m fine,” he said hoarsely, holding up a hand. The very last thing he needed was to feel her warm hands on his chilled skin again. He was staring at a spot just to the left of her chin, unable to meet her eyes. “Sorry,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward her shirt—although he wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for getting her wet, or for his inappropriate thoughts.

She turned and grabbed the dry towel from the counter, shaking it open with a flick of her wrist. “It’s just water,” she said, but there was a tremor in her voice that he didn’t like. He’d made her uncomfortable, or worse—he certainly didn’t want her to be afraid of him. He might not remember her as a friend but his level of assholeness would _never_ extend past his words.

“Sorry,” he repeated, this time forcing himself to meet her eyes. “I’m sorry you have to deal with…this. With me.” She was holding the towel, loosely opened. Her eyes were on his face—they hadn’t wandered once, which only added to his guilt.

“I don’t _have_ to do anything,” she reminded him. “You’d do the same for me, if our situations were reversed.”

“Are you sure?” he returned, cursing his brain for immediately trying to imagine helping her from the bath. He reached for the towel. She let him take it, but he couldn’t wrap it around himself with one hand so he held it draped in front of his waist, feeling like an idiot as he tried not to shiver.

“I’m sure. Can you dry yourself?”

He swallowed. “Yes.”

“Dress?”

“Um. I…yeah.”

“Are you sure?”

He almost lied. “No,” he admitted. “But I think so.”

“Okay. Step out, please.”

He stared at her, confused.

She gestured toward his legs. “Step out so I know you’re not going to fall, and then I’ll leave you alone.”

He glanced down at his feet, barely visible in the cloudy water. “Oh,” he said. He shifted his weight tentatively, testing his legs and hips. After a moment, he stepped carefully over the edge of the tub, still holding the towel in front of himself as his foot touched the wet rug.

Her hand was hovering near his elbow but she didn’t touch him, and he drew his other leg out without incident.

“Safe and sound,” he muttered, chancing a look at her face, and she smiled.

“I’ll be in the other room if you need me,” she said.

“Right. Thanks,” he answered, knowing his tone was less than gracious. She was still smiling; she really didn’t seem remotely intimidated by his crankiness, which only made him feel more vulnerable.

She turned and left him alone, pulling the door closed with a soft click, and he closed his eyes, dropping his chin to his chest as he exhaled.

 

*       *       *

 

“I, uh…can’t get this over my head.”

She looked up and took off her glasses, setting them on the coffee table. “Oh,” she said, her gaze skimming down the length of his body. He’d gotten into his sweatpants without too much trauma, and was standing with his sweatshirt held in front of his stomach. “You don’t have a button-up?”

“Only the dirty one I was wearing in the accident. I didn’t bring…” He scowled at her. “Say ‘I told you so,’ get it over with.”

“I’m not,” she answered mildly.

“I was thinking about comfort, not…practicality.” He paused, giving her a dirty look. “Laugh if you want, but keep in mind I have brain damage.”

She did laugh, then, and she saw his lips quirk in response as she got to her feet. “Do you want help getting it on?” she asked, knowing that he realized she would also have to help him get it off at some point.

He frowned. “Well I’m not going to eat dinner without a shirt,” he said.

She laughed again. “I think I have something.” She started toward her bedroom.

“I really don’t think you and I wear the same size clothes, Lieutenant,” he said.

She hesitated, looking at him.

“I remember,” he said before she could say anything. “Olivia.”

“I’m used to you only calling me ‘Lieutenant’ when you’re irritated,” she said.

“I _am_ irritated,” he answered, and she smiled. “And you calling me by my last name? Is that a sign of annoyance?”

“Not always,” she said, turning back toward the bedroom and disappearing before he could think of an answer. He was still standing in the same place when she returned a minute later with a blue cotton button-up. He watched as she unfolded it and unbuttoned the left sleeve so it would slide past his cast. “Here,” she said, holding the sleeve open for him to put his arm through.

He eyed the shirt for a moment before slipping his cast into the sleeve. “Leftover from a hot date?” he asked as she pulled the sleeve carefully up his arm. He immediately despised himself for the inappropriate question.

She smiled. “It’s yours.”

He studied her face for a moment while she concentrated on straightening the sleeve around his cast. “Mine,” he said.

“Mmhm.”

“Have we—” He stopped, and she lifted her gaze to his. “Have I spent the night here?” he asked instead. He wasn’t sure what answer he was hoping for. On one hand, he would hate to think that he didn’t remember something like that, but on the other, it might explain why he was so physically drawn to her. He’d had a lot of female friends and coworkers in his life; some of them he’d found attractive, though he’d never crossed a boundary he’d set for himself—and he’d never had such inappropriate thoughts about any of them.

“No,” she said, and he felt a stab of disappointment that startled him. He didn’t want to examine the feeling. She stepped around behind him and he turned his head, switching the sweatshirt to his casted hand and slipping his right arm into the sleeve. “At Noah’s birthday, Jesse—Detective Rollins’s daughter—got chocolate frosting all over you. You had a sweater you’d taken off, so you wore that home and I washed this.” She offered a small smile and shrugged. “Lucky for you I keep forgetting to give it back.”

 _If we’re friends and coworkers, I can’t want her like this_ , he thought with a touch of desperation, and he suddenly realized the source of his disappointment. If they’d already crossed a line, if they’d already shared some intimacy that he didn’t remember, it would let him off the hook. It would give him permission to want her, if he’d already had her.

He realized belatedly that she was buttoning his shirt, and he looked down. Without thinking about it, he lifted his hand and wrapped his fingers around hers. “I can do that,” he said, but she’d already frozen, staring at their hands halfway down his chest.

“Sorry, I—” She broke off, and he saw her struggling to control her expression. He didn’t know why she was upset, but he tightened his hand around hers instinctively. “I know you don’t remember, Rafael, and I know it’s hard for you, me treating you so familiarly when I’m a stranger to you—”

“Lieutenant—Olivia,” he started, but he stopped when she shook her head. He didn’t know what he would’ve said, anyway.

“Someday we can laugh about this,” she said quietly. “But right now…” She let out a breath and pulled her hands from his grasp. She put her palm against his upper arm and dragged her gaze up to his, but only for a moment. “I’ll get your sling and we can eat. I ordered you the mandarin pork, it’s your favorite since they added it to the menu a few months ago, but I also got the sweet and sour chicken you used to like, just in case.” She turned away and he barely resisted the urge to reach for her arm.

He draped the sweatshirt over his cast and looked down, concentrating on fastening his buttons while he turned her words over in his mind. He thought of the way her arms had lingered around him in the bathroom even after he was steady on his feet.

He thought of what it must’ve been like for her, walking into his hospital room, needing to see that he was alive and well, wanting to hug him—only to realize that he had no idea who she was.

Neither of them spoke when she returned to his side with the sling, or while she tucked it beneath his arm and secured it around his neck. He watched her from the corner of his eye. He couldn’t make sense of his feelings and jumbled thoughts, and he couldn’t trust his brain to provide him with answers. She was all he had, and he tried to work up the courage to start a conversation that would likely be embarrassing for both of them.

She turned away and started toward the kitchen.

He stood for a few moments, looking around at the Christmas decorations and feeling completely unanchored, as though he didn’t belong to the world. How could it be Christmas? How could she, his friend that he didn’t know, be pulling takeout containers from a bag for his supper? How could he feel like himself and a pod person at the same time?

“I need a drink,” he said.

“The doctor said no alcohol.”

He started to run his hand through his damp hair and winced, cursing under his breath when he hit the lump on the back of his head. The pain made his temper flare. “God damn it,” he said. “I just want to be able to _relax_. I can’t _think_ , I can’t fucking—”

“Eating will help you relax,” she said. “You know how you feel when you haven’t—”

“Stay out of my head,” he ground out. “I don’t need you telling me when to eat or what to pack or—or how to feel.”

He knew the first two were ridiculous—he clearly _had_ needed help packing, and he _was_ hungry—but he was surprised to note that it was the third that seemed to find its mark.

She looked over at him. “I would never tell you how to feel,” she said, and he realized he’d hurt her feelings. Maybe he’d been trying to do that all along. “Or not to feel,” she added. “I’m sorry if you think I’m—”

“I just want to be alone,” he said.

“Of course,” she answered, pointing toward the takeout containers. “You’re welcome to eat in the bedroom. You’re free to do whatever you want here. The bedroom is yours for as long as you’re here, no one will bother you there.” She carried her food to the table and folded herself into a chair.

“I’ll do my best to stay out of your way,” he said.

She didn’t answer, so he crossed to the counter to get his food, cursing his rumbling stomach.

 

*       *       *

 

He poked at the food with his fork, wrinkling his nose. It didn’t look like something he would order, but his stomach grumbled again as a reminder that he hadn’t had any non-hospital food in days. Trying to tamp down his irrational anger, he shoved a forkful into his mouth and chewed more aggressively than necessary, scowling at the wall.

It was good.

Actually, it was better than good.

 _It’s your favorite_ , her voice whispered in his head, and he had a sudden and nearly-overwhelming urge to throw the carton across the bedroom. He closed his eyes, drawing a breath through his nose.

_You’re pissed off at her for ordering you something you like? What the hell is wrong with you?_

The doctor had warned her that he might have mood swings or even become violent; Barba had heard the lieutenant assure the doctor that she wasn’t worried, and Barba couldn’t help thinking her faith was misplaced. He couldn’t trust himself right now.

 _Well, I wouldn’t actually hurt her, no matter how much she might piss me off_ , he thought. But then came a nagging whisper: _but you did hurt her. Not physically, but you still hurt her. And why? Because she’s the only person you have?_

Barba opened his eyes and pulled in another deep breath, releasing it slowly. He had to get control of his emotions or he’d destroy his life before he could even remember it. He looked around her bedroom; it didn’t feel familiar at all, although that didn’t say much.

His gaze landed on the framed photo on her nightstand: her son, smiling into the camera, sunlight streaming through his curls and sparkling in his blue eyes. Barbra’s stomach clenched, and for a moment the food tasted bitter on his tongue.

 _Because of me, she’s eating dinner out there alone instead of with her son. He’s sleeping away from his home during his holiday break, she’s given up her bedroom and taken time off work, and all you can do is sulk and feel sorry for yourself. Maybe your father was right about you_.

_And the lieutenant was wrong about you._

Barba looked at the photo of her smiling son, trying to pull the boy’s name from his spotty memory. He’d developed a system…He just had to remember the first piece. Barba closed his eyes, thinking through the sudden pounding of his head. It started with Eddie.

 _The elephant_ , Barba thought. _Eddie the Elephant_. He felt a cool rush of relief. _Elephants. Noah’s Ark. Noah_. He opened his eyes, looking at the picture. _Noah._

Barba got to his feet with a wince. Holding his food carton against his stomach with his cast, he opened the door, picked up his glass from the nightstand, and left the bedroom. Benson was sitting at the kitchen table with her laptop open and her food, barely touched, beside it. She also had a glass of wine, and Barba shoved aside his childish jealousy. She was allowed to have alcohol because she hadn’t forgotten half of her life.

She was talking quietly to the computer, and Barba stopped halfway across the living room when he realized she was talking to Noah. Barba almost went back to the bedroom, figuring she didn’t want or need his company, after all.

“How’s Uncle Rafa?” Noah’s voice asked from the laptop.

Benson glanced toward Barba. “He’s gonna be fine, don’t worry,” she told her son, smiling for the camera. “Getting better every day.”

“I wanna say hi,” Noah said.

“He’s eating dinner, honey,” Benson answered. “Maybe tomorrow—” She stopped when Barba moved closer to the table, and looked over at him. He nodded, and she turned the laptop partway so that Noah could see Barba.

“Hi, Uncle Rafa!” Noah said, grinning and waving.

“Hey,” Barba answered, bemused by the kid’s happiness to see him. “How are you—” _Eddie the Elephant, Noah’s Ark_ —“Noah?” he asked. The boy didn’t seem to notice the brief falter over his name, and answered excitedly.

“Oh, good! Me and Jesse got to have root beer floats and popcorn.”

“Not for supper!” a female voice called from somewhere off-camera, and Noah laughed.

“After chicken nuggets,” he said. “Aunt Amanda said if we got too hyper she was gonna make us run around the—”

“I don’t think you should be tattling on Aunt Amanda,” Barba cut in, unable to keep the grin from his face as he heard the woman’s objections in the background. “Remember she’s the one who gave you the ice cream and popcorn.”

“Okay,” Noah said, looking to the side and giggling at whatever Rollins was muttering. “I’m being real good ‘cause it’s cold outside and I don’t wanna do laps.”

Benson laughed quietly, shaking her head.

“Good plan,” Barba said.

Looking back at the screen, Noah asked, “When can I come home, Uncle Rafa? Mom said when you start to feel better. It’s almost Christmas!”

“Hopefully soon, buddy,” Barba said, with a fresh surge of guilt. “Eddie misses you. Should I give him peanuts or something?”

Noah laughed. “Packing peanuts!” he said.

Barba hesitated. He didn’t have much experience with kids Noah’s age, but that seemed like an odd reference for someone so young. “Packing peanuts?” he repeated, thinking maybe he’d misunderstood.

“Remember? You said because he’s made of stuffing—”

“Noah, honey,” Benson said, pulling the computer back toward herself, “Uncle Rafa has to finish his dinner and I think it’s about time for you to get washed up and in pajamas for Aunt Amanda, right?”

“Okay,” Noah said, sounding glum. “But we get to watch Dumbo, she said so.”

“That’ll be fun,” Benson said. “Have a good night, I love you and I’ll talk to you in the morning, alright?”

“Okay. Love you. Love you, too, Uncle Rafa!” he called, as though Barba’s being out of sight also made him out of earshot.

Barba walked around behind Benson so he could see Noah’s face. “Goodnight, Noah,” he said. He didn’t know if he was supposed to say _I love you_ in response; was that something he did regularly, now, in this strange life that he couldn’t recall? Was he _silly Uncle Rafa_ who said goodnight with _I love you_?

After Benson ended the session and closed her laptop, she turned her head to look up at Barba. “Thank you for saying goodnight,” she said quietly. “He really does think the world of you.”

After a moment, Barba walked around the table and set his food and drink on the surface. He ran his hand down the front of his shirt, giving her a few seconds to send him away, before carefully lowering himself into the chair. “Why?” he asked.

She smiled, though it was tinged with sadness. “He knows what packing peanuts are because of you, and he both thinks it’s funny that his stuffed elephant would eat them _and_ that they should be banned because of harm to the environment and real animals. Because of you.”

“I’m sorry about earlier,” he said quietly.

She sighed. “I’m sorry,” she countered, pushing to her feet. “I’m supposed to be helping you, not making you more anxious.” He watched as she got a second wine glass from the cupboard and half-filled it from the bottle on the counter. “You’re an adult and I’m not your mother,” she said, setting the wine in front of him. “This is a compromise, because I’m not letting you touch the scotch in the cupboard,” she added as she returned to her seat.

He smiled, looking at the wine glass to get away from her eyes. “It’s not _you_ that makes me anxious,” he murmured, fingering the stem of the glass. “It’s just that everything I feel is confusing. Things I have no business…” He paused, dampening his lower lip with the tip of his tongue. “We’re friends, and coworkers. That’s what you say. But even this, sitting here with food and wine, it feels…familiar…”

“We sometimes go to Forlini’s, so if you’re remembering—”

“I’m not,” he cut in quietly, forcing himself to meet her steady stare. “I’m not remembering, that’s the problem. All I have are feelings with no… _context_. I just feel like there’s…” He trailed off, and now her gaze was the one that dropped to the table. She shifted under his appraisal. He sighed, and ran his hand over his mouth. He was in desperate need of a shave. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he said.

“I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me,” she said, looking up at him.

“I can’t compartmentalize,” he said. “I feel like I’m completely out of control of my thoughts and feelings. I can’t separate out…”

“You came up with a way to remember Noah’s name.”

“Oh. Yeah. Eddie the Elephant. Because I remember Eddie, he’s a constant, you know? So if I start with a constant, I can memorize a sequence. Eddie the Elephant, Noah’s Ark. Stupid, but at least I can make new memories if I repeat them in a sequence.”

“And my name.”

He hesitated. “Yeah.”

“What’s my sequence? My constant?”

He fidgeted with his glass. “Um. I don’t…want to answer that,” he said. “I think I’ve made you uncomfortable enough for today.”

“Hmm,” she said with a smile. “I can’t imagine it’s flattering. Listen, what if we make you a chart? To help you compartmentalize, when you get overwhelmed—give you something to focus on, you know?” She stabbed her fork into her food and raised it to her mouth. “And you can ask me about things you don’t remember, I’ll help you fill in as many boxes as I can and then you’ll have a reference, like the notebook.”

He watched her for a moment as she chewed her food, and then he turned to his own dinner, spearing a piece of pork. “How did we first meet?” he asked. “A case, I assume?”

“Hmm,” she said, sipping her wine. “An impossible case, really. We were told you were someone who wouldn’t shy away from the challenge.” She laughed, shaking her head. “You made quite the first impression.”

He raised an eyebrow. “That bad, huh?”

“Oh, I don’t know about _bad_ ,” she answered, still smiling. “Your first words to the captain when he introduced us were ‘take your daughters to work day?’” She laughed again at his grimace.

“How’d we still end up friends after _that_?” he asked.

“You can be very charming when you want to be,” she said.

“Did I win?”

“You won. You usually do.”

They ate in silence for a minute. “I don’t understand why I have this huge gap. Whole _years_ gone.”

She considered for a moment, taking another drink of wine. “This job…takes a toll on people,” she finally said. “It can cost you everything if you let it. Family, friends, life. Certainly peace of mind. It changes us. All of us. It’s changed you in six years.”

He hesitated. “For the better, or…”

The sadness had returned to her smile. “In some ways,” she said. “But maybe it’s cost you more than I realized.”

“Enough to make my brain cut out more than half a decade?”

“The memory loss is temporary, Rafa. But when you’re back to your old self again, it might be…a good idea to take a step back and examine whether or not you’re living the life you want to live.”

He forced a smile even though he felt ill. “Sick of me, huh?” he said, an attempt at a joke.

“No. You’re the best ADA I’ve ever worked with and we would all feel your loss, but you have to be happy. And if your job is causing you so much stress that you…That first case? The one we met over? You won that case for the victim because you put your belt around your neck in the courtroom and had her rapist choke you.”

He stared at her. “I did what, now?”

“And it worked. He showed his true colors to the jury and the bailiffs interfered before he could do serious damage but that was your _first case_ with SVU.”

He considered that, watching her pick at her food. He’d always had a habit of grandstanding, and he had enough self-awareness to know that it came from a place of ingrained insecurity. He’d learned to compensate for all the things he’d seen as failings in his younger life, and now he _knew_ that he was good at his job. He couldn’t remember the details of what he’d been doing in the DA’s office, or the work he’d done with Lieutenant Benson, but he knew he was good at it. He wouldn’t accept any less, and he suspected she wouldn’t, either.

Looking at her, however, he couldn’t help but wonder if there had been some other motivation for him to take that first case, a case that she referred to as “impossible.” He’d wanted to win; surely he’d wanted to help the victim, but he had an idea that he’d also wanted to impress the woman currently sitting across from him. He didn’t even know her now and he wanted to impress her, and he couldn’t imagine he’d have felt any differently after a first meeting.

 _Not impress her_ , he thought. _Make her proud._

He knew the distinction was important, no matter how small it was. Someone had once accused him of “strutting around like a peacock” in court, and he’d laughed it off. Court was often just a thin line away from theater, and he knew how to perform for the jury. He knew how to perform for _results_.

He didn’t want Benson to see him as a peacock who got results with theatrics and shows of color, though. No, he wanted her to see him as the guy the jury _didn’t_ see, the one who often stayed up all night poring over law books and case files, the one who won cases because he knew the law forward and back. He’d never been unwilling to put in the work.

Based on the way she looked at him, and spoke to him, he thought maybe she _did_ see him that way, and maybe his pull toward her was nothing more than that; a sense of being seen and understood.

“I knew you were someone we wanted—needed—on our team,” she said, offering him a smile. “You were willing to do anything to get justice for a victim that most people would turn away from.” She tipped her head a bit, reading his face. “You don’t agree?” she asked.

He shrugged his good shoulder. She’d already complimented him, but he wanted to test the waters: “It’s all about who puts on the best show. In court, I mean. Conviction rates are a prosecutor’s lifebread, you know? If we want to survive, we have to learn to play to any given audience, and I suppose I’ve always gotten off a bit on the…” He waved his fork in the air as he searched for the right word. “Glamor, maybe. The…pomp.”

“And the following press conference?” she suggested, but he could hear the teasing note in her voice. “Some people might think the showmanship is a defense mechanism,” she said, giving him a pointed look. Before he could think of a response, she put down her fork and leaned her elbows on the table to regard him. “But I know it’s just one of the tools in your belt. Anybody can charm a jury—maybe not as well as you—with a smile and swagger but none of the _pomp_ really matters if you’re not willing to put in the work. If you don’t have the knowledge and the _heart_ to back it up. You’re not the best at your job because of the _flash_ , Rafael, but because of the simmer underneath.”

She paused. “And as for you _getting off_ on the glamor, I think you know—even without remembering the details of our job—that the glamor is an illusion. But you do enjoy the job, or at least you used to, and there are few things more enjoyable than watching you when you’re on the top of your game.”

He fidgeted, looking at his food. After a moment he laughed, a self-deprecating sound. “I fished for compliments and you overwhelmed me with them,” he admitted, flicking his gaze up to hers. “Thanks for the ego boost. It’s taken a few knocks recently.”

“That’s what I’m here for. Although you should know I’m also here to take you down a peg or two when necessary.”

He laughed. “Lucky me,” he said.

She smiled, and he thought it was the kind of smile that could make a person fall—hard and fast. He tried to remind himself that he had no business considering the merits of her smile, or anything else beyond her kindness as a friend, but he was tired and could feel himself relaxing into her presence. He wouldn’t let his guard down completely—he never did _that_ —but he didn’t have the energy to keep it all the way up, either, and he couldn’t deny that he felt instinctively safe with her. Maybe she was right about trust, after all.

“What can I say,” she answered. “I might be your biggest fan.”

“Biggest, huh?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light. “I don’t, uh…I’m not dating anyone, you said?”

“You don’t talk much about your dating life, to be honest. But nothing serious, no.”

“Would you know? I mean, if I don’t talk about it…”

“If you were seeing someone, I’d know,” she said.

“And you? Do we, uh…talk about your dating life?”

“Ask me whatever you’d like,” she said, which wasn’t really an answer to his question.

“Anything?” he answered. He cocked his eyebrow but immediately let it fall; he’d forgotten the stitches.

“I know better than to try to bluff you, Barba,” she said, straightening and picking up her fork. “And I kept a secret from you once. I won’t do it again.”

“What kind of secret?”

“I was seeing someone and I should’ve told you. It was a conflict of interest, and I knew it, but I knew you wouldn’t be happy about it and I didn’t want you or anyone else to tell me it was a bad idea. I was in a rough place and he was what I needed at the time. I won’t ever regret my time with him, but I almost ruined my friendship with you. _That_ I regret.”

“Did I say something…”

“No. I hurt you, and you shut down. So I shut you out,” she said, and he was surprised how matter-of-factly she spoke. He could hear the lingering pain beneath her words, but she wasn’t trying to hide it. She shrugged. “At least, I tried. I wanted to live in denial and you’d never let that lie, so I did what I needed to do to protect my bubble.”

“And what happened? Are we still…”

“Back to normal,” she said with a smile. “You’re very forgiving.”

“That doesn’t sound like me,” he answered. “Besides, you have a right to date who you want. If I was pissed off, _you’d_ be the one forgiving _me_ in the end.” He kept turning over those words— _I hurt you_ —in his head. Had he been hurt by the secret, or by the fact that she was dating someone?

“No. I was wrong. And I’ve never said it until now, but I’m sorry.”

“If you were in a…rough place, as you said, and he helped you through something, then more power to him, I guess,” he said. He paused. “Why didn’t I like him?”

She smiled. “He was Internal Affairs. Investigated me, my former partners, pretty much everyone on the squad at some point. _You_ thought you were choosing my side and I crossed over to _his_.”

He could tell she was uncomfortable with this whole line of discussion, and he didn’t feel right about receiving apologies for things he didn’t even remember. He knew he should drop the subject of her personal life, but he had one more question.

“What about Noah?” he asked.

She tipped her head. “What about him?”

“You said you adopted him.”

“Yes.”

“You weren’t…uh…with—what’s his name?”

“Ed Tucker.”

Barba didn’t like the name; the feeling was immediate and inexplicable.

“I’d adopted Noah before Ed and I dated,” she said. “It was nice, seeing them together. I won’t say I haven’t felt guilty that Noah doesn’t have a father in his life, even though I know it’s irrational—the idea that he’d be better off somehow.”

“Not everyone is better off with a father,” he said, the words slipping out before he could examine them. He had no idea what, if anything, she knew about his childhood.

“Oh,” she said, “I know.”

He couldn’t break away from her stare, and he knew that she _did_ know; she understood exactly what he meant, and he could see that she had her own emotional scars, scars that she likely kept closely guarded.

“Sometimes all they do is make us doubt ourselves, our self-worth,” he murmured.

“Teach us to overcompensate by making us believe that anything less than perfection is failure,” she suggested softly. He knew she wasn’t talking about Tucker, or Noah.

He bobbed his head to the side for a second. “Make it hard to believe that unconditional love could actually exist in the world,” he said.

“I don’t think I really believed that until I found Noah. He taught me how to love with my whole heart.”

“And now that’s what you’re teaching him,” he said.

She smiled. “So are you,” she answered, surprising him. “It took me a while to let go of what I thought a family should be, because I always felt like I didn’t have one. But you and my squad showed me that I _do_ , and so does Noah.”

He picked up his wine and sipped at it before answering. “That doesn’t include Ed Tucker, then?”

“No. But it does include Uncle Rafa.” She studied him. “Does that bother you? Looking at things sort of from the outside, seeing how different it is than you thought?”

“It bothers me that I can’t remember. That people know things about me that I don’t know about myself. That I don’t know if I’ve actually earned the praise or the…‘uncle’ status. But it…” He paused for what felt like a long time, debating how much to say, but she didn’t rush him or offer prompts. She drank her wine and waited. “It sounds like a nice thing, to build a family, you know?”

“You’ve earned it,” she said quietly when it was clear he wasn’t going to say more. She pointed at his food. “Do you like that?”

“Oh. Yeah,” he answered, looking down at his now-cold supper. “Thanks.” He was ashamed of how he’d acted earlier, and he knew his anger hadn’t made sense. Even now, he could feel it inside of him, though, like a current of electricity just waiting for an outlet.

“Do you need more ibuprofen?”

“No. Maybe, um, maybe some Tylenol before bed.”

“Is the headache bad?”

“Not too bad, no,” he said. “And the bath helped. Maybe even enough to be worth the humiliation,” he added with a crooked smile.

“You have nothing to be embarrassed about. Do you want me to heat up your food?”

“No, it’s fine,” he said, stabbing his fork into a piece of pork. “Thank you.” They ate in silence for a minute. “So you know my mother?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I sent her on a cruise over Christmas?”

“Mmhm,” she answered, swallowing a mouthful of food.

“Do you know if we…if we’re—”

“There’s been some tension but I think mostly it’s because you felt guilty about your grandmother. Because you argued to have her moved into assisted living before she passed. You felt guilty but I don’t think your mother blamed you for anything. And you said things have gotten better lately.”

He nodded, chewing, trying not to think of his grandmother. The grief was sharp, as though he’d just lost her, but the ache was deep and familiar and he knew that he’d been feeling it for some time. When his memories returned, they might bring the guilt, too, but that was a concern for later.

“Don’t think we were going to let you be alone for Christmas,” she said, and he lifted his gaze to hers. He’d told her to stay out of his head, but she seemed unable to do that. She knew exactly what he’d been thinking: he wasn’t dating anyone, his grandmother was gone, he’d sent his mother on a cruise, and he had no other family left. He’d seen his apartment, and there had been no decorations, no tree or lights or presents. He could all too easily imagine himself sitting on that sofa in the dark, drinking scotch alone as Christmas Eve ticked over to Christmas morning and the day crept past.

“I don’t…” He swallowed, looking down at his food. “You said you’d built a family, but—”

“Yes, Rafael, one that includes you. Your presents for Noah are already under the tree,” she said, pointing with her fork. “And ours for you. You were coming here for dinner.”

He looked back at the tree. “I bought presents for Noah?”

“Yes.”

“And you?” he asked, turning his attention back to her.

She hesitated. “I don’t need any—”

“So that’s a no.”

“It’s not a no, I think it’s more of a _not yet_ , but now with things being the way they are I don’t want you to worry about it.”

In spite of himself, he laughed. “Things being the way they are,” he repeated.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yes. I procrastinated and now I have no idea what I would’ve or should’ve gotten you—”

“Hell, Barba, you might’ve already gotten me something, I don’t know. It’s just not here. But I don’t care. You being alive and well is all I need for Christmas.” She cleared her throat and took a drink of wine.

“You should bring your son home,” he said after a few seconds of silence. “It’s almost Christmas, like he said. You should be together, Olivia.”

He saw something ripple across her features, gone before he could identify it. “Yes. Maybe tomorrow night if you’re feeling up to it.”

There were a lot of things that he wanted to say, but the words were all jumbled up in his head and the thudding in his temples had grown more insistent. He picked at his food for a minute, but the headache had begun to make him queasy and he wasn’t hungry anymore. He put down his fork and took a drink of wine, instead. He wondered about the scotch she’d claimed to have in the cupboard; he somehow suspected it might be his favorite brand.

“I think…” He sighed, fighting the urge to massage his temples. “Thank you for dinner and for, you know…not leaving me to drown, but I think I’m…I think I’ll go to bed.”

She glanced at his food and nodded. “I’ll put this away for tomorrow, or if you wake up hungry in the night.”

He swallowed his objections, determined not to throw any more offers of kindness back in her face for the evening. “Thanks.” He took another sip of wine, but he wasn’t going to finish that, either. “I guess I’ll see you in the morning,” he said, getting slowly to his feet. “Goodnight, Olivia.”

He’d already turned toward the bedroom when she said, quietly, “Goodnight, Rafael.”

 

*       *       *

 

Barba opened his eyes and let out a shaky breath as the darkness surrounded him. _Dream_ , he thought, as his stomach churned uneasily. He turned his head, taking in the dim shapes of the unfamiliar room, and for several seconds he had no idea where he was. He held himself still, fighting against the sense of panic that was struggling for purchase within him.

 _I’m at the cop’s place_ , he thought. _Lieutenant Benson. Olivia_. Her name brought him some measure of comfort, if only because he could bring it to mind without too much struggle. He shifted, wincing at the protests from his body; the effects of the bath, and the Tylenol, had long since worn off. He also had to pee, but he waited a minute, letting his heart rate return to normal while trying to decide if the urge was strong enough to drag him from the warmth of the bed.

He heard a noise from somewhere in the apartment, and he turned his head on the pillow, frowning. He held his breath, listening. It sounded like…crying. His heart, just beginning to find a regular rhythm, jumped back into high gear.

He pushed himself up and swung his legs off the bed with a grunt of pain, but then he hesitated. He wasn’t sure if he should interfere; offering comfort in times of emotional distress had never been one of his talents, and she likely didn’t want him, or anyone, to see her if she was crying in the middle of the night.

He stood and moved quietly toward the bedroom door, which was cracked open. After stripping out of his sling and shirt the night before, he’d pulled the door an inch ajar before crawling into bed, feeling somehow safer—knowing there was a cop in the unfamiliar apartment, maybe—with it open than closed.

“Rafael!”

He was out of the bedroom before he realized he was moving, heading toward the sound of her distressed call. He pushed open Noah’s bedroom door—also slightly ajar—and stepped cautiously into the room. By the glow of the nightlight, he could see that she was in the bed.

“Olivia?” he asked quietly.

She sat up with a gasp and quickly fumbled for the lamp on the bedside table, nearly knocking it to the floor as she tried to turn it on.

Barba held up a hand. “Sorry,” he said as she managed to flick on the light. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you—”

“Barba?” she asked. The confusion was evident in her wrinkled brow, but her eyes held something more—a lingering fear, a remnant of whatever had been torturing her sleep. The sheets and blanket were tangled around her legs. She was wearing a ribbed, white tank top that clung to her chest, and Barba quickly averted his eyes, cursing himself for looking. “Rafael,” she said, letting out an unsteady breath. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said, unsure if it was a lie or not. “You were—I heard you, uh—having a nightmare?”

“Yeah,” she said, scrubbing her hands over her face as she tried to rid her mind of its fog. “Sorry. Nightmare,” she said, as though she needed to say the word aloud to convince herself she was awake.

“Are you okay?” he asked hesitantly, hovering inside the doorway. “Do you want, um…water or something?”

She smiled at him, a smile that was already familiar. “No. Thank you.”

“What?” he asked after a moment.

“It’s funny. You always offer me something to drink when I’m upset. Water, coffee, alcohol.”

He shuffled his feet and suddenly realized he was standing in nothing but a pair of sweatpants. “I’m not great at—” He waved his hand in the air— “comforting people.”

“You’re better than you think,” she said, reaching down to tug the tangle of bedding from her legs. “Because you care enough to try, and that’s what really matters.” She kicked herself free with a muttered curse. Her movements were jerky, almost frantic, and he knew that the dream was still clinging to her.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. “I’ll leave you—”

“No,” she said, and he stopped, startled. She looked at him, and he could see the wideness of her pupils and the beaded sweat on her brow and lip. “Don’t, uh…Sorry, could you just…” She swung her herself around and put her bare feet on the floor. Her hair was a tangled mess around her face, and she looked at him sideways. She was wearing gray boxer shorts and the white tank top, and Barba swallowed, once more pulling his gaze from the unexpected sight of so much bare skin.

He didn’t look away quickly enough to miss the scars, though, and bile stung the back of his throat as he glanced around the room. He tried to turn his mind to other things, but it was uncooperative, choosing instead to catalog every scar—dear God, were those _cigarette burns_ on her chest and shoulder?—that his quick glance down her body had shown him.

“I’m sorry,” she said, snatching her robe from the back of the chair and putting it on as she got to her feet.

“What for?” he asked, casting her a quick frown.

“For waking you.” She paused, looking him over, and he was suddenly very self-conscious—ridiculous considering she’d pulled his naked body from the bathtub not many hours earlier. “Aren’t you supposed to be wearing your sling?” she asked, arching her eyebrows.

“I can’t sleep with it on,” he said. He managed to keep most of the defensiveness out of his voice, but he raised his chin, expecting her to press the issue.

She didn’t.

“I’ll wear it during the day. I don’t sleep that aggressively anyway.” That earned him a smile, and he found himself smiling in return, relieved. “Are you getting up?” he asked after a moment.

“I need…I don’t know. Something. To walk around, maybe.”

“Something to drink?” he suggested, and she laughed softly, looking at him in the glow of the lamp. He paused. “Hot chocolate?”

“That’s a new one,” she said, and his smile widened. “But you know, it sounds pretty good. Are you going back to bed?”

She didn’t want him to go—she didn’t want to be alone. She wasn’t going to say it again, but he could read it on her. She’d gotten something of a handle on herself, but she was rattled. He had an idea that rattling the lieutenant was not an easy thing.

“I could use some hot chocolate,” he said. “Let me, uh—I’ll go put on my shirt.”

“I’ll put on the water,” she answered with a smile.

 

*       *       *

 

“Do you want help putting the sling back on?”

“I’ll be careful,” he said, refusing to let the simmering irritation bubble any closer to the surface. He wasn’t going to sully the moment when she was already upset. “Just don’t throw anything toward my left side,” he added, with the sole purpose of making her smile.

Obliging, she said, “Okay.” She sank onto the opposite end of the sofa, leaving space between them. He could smell the lingering aroma of her perfume, and possibly shampoo, mingling with the scent of his hot chocolate. The mixture was comforting and far more appealing than it should’ve been.

He raised the mug to his lips, blowing on the surface before taking a tentative sip; it was still too hot to drink, which was a shame—drinking would give him more time to figure out what the hell he was supposed to say.

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” she said quietly, staring into her steaming mug.

“Actually, I had a nightmare of my own,” he admitted. “I woke up and…then I heard you.” He could feel her studying him, and he turned his head to meet her eyes. He offered a small smile and a shrug of his shoulder. “We might as well have had the chocolate _before_ bed,” he joked.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

He laughed, a brief chuffing sound. “You first,” he suggested.

He didn’t expect a real answer, but she surprised him. “I dreamed I couldn’t save you,” she said. “Same thing I’ve seen every time I’ve closed my eyes since…that car…” She swallowed with effort and gave her head a little shake. “It’s stupid, I know. For one thing, I didn’t do anything to save you anyway. You weren’t bleeding out or anything—although the blood around your head, Barba, Jesus—”

“Hey, it’s alright,” he said. “I’m here—a little worse for wear, but right here.”

“I know, but—” She stopped herself, looking away from him as she turned the hot mug in her hands.

After a few seconds of silence, he guessed: “I’m not the same.”

“No, Barba, you _are_ the same,” she murmured with a soft sigh. “You’re the same and I love—having you here so I can see that you’re okay but _I’m_ not the same, not to you, you don’t know me and so I keep _trying_ not to cross boundaries and make you uncomfortable. That’s the last thing I want to do.”

He tried not to dwell on that little stumble following the word _love_ , but he couldn’t help but think of the dream that had been plaguing him since the accident. He had to ask her.

“I don’t want to add to your anxiety because I selfishly want to…”

He waited, but she didn’t finish. “What makes me anxious is how much I want to relax around you, let my guard down. I don’t do that,” he heard himself admit. “At least, I never did. Maybe it’s just instinct, like you said, knowing I can trust you.” He regarded her in silence for a moment. “Tell me what you want to do,” he said.

She smiled over at him; maybe it was because of her natural instinct to buck against the command in his words, or maybe it was in acknowledgment of the softness of his voice, a softness that undermined the command. “I want what I’ve wanted since I first saw you alive and awake in that hospital bed, Rafael. I want to grab you and hug you until you can’t breathe.”

He touched his tongue to his lower lip. “You want to suffocate me?” he asked in a weak attempt at levity.

“I want to hold onto you until I know you’re safe,” she said. “I know it’s stupid. I can see you.”

He hesitated. _Don’t be a coward_. “I need to ask you something,” he said. “But I don’t want to make _you_ uncomfortable, and either...either I’m crazy or…”

“Spit it out,” she said, not unkindly.

“Did I ever…We never dated or…anything…”

“No,” she said. She seemed about to say more, but didn’t. She watched him, waiting, and he could feel heat creeping into his cheeks.

“Did I, like, break your heart or anything?” he asked, cursing himself a hundred times over for the stupid question, the stupid choice of words—the use of _like_ , for God’s sake—as he shifted nervously on the sofa.

She didn’t answer for what felt like a long time. He fought the urge to apologize into her silence, barely managing to bite the words back. Finally, she said, “You’ve asked a few times, or at least hinted—is it related to your dream?”

He ran his tongue over his teeth and nodded. “I had this dream that I’d pulled a baby off life support and Ben Stone’s son charged me with murder…” It sounded so ridiculous to say it aloud.

“You told me.”

He looked at her, his forehead wrinkling. He barely noticed the pull at his stitches. “I did?”

She nodded. “In the hospital, the first time—when I showed you pictures on my phone. Stone was on TV.”

“Oh. Right, yeah, I remember,” he said. “Well…” He sighed. “It always ends the same. This vague, blurry trial where I cry and—and the verdict of not guilty—and then it’s you and me outside the courthouse and—I’m saying all this stuff, I don’t even know, I can’t really remember when I wake up, but I tell you I have to leave and then I walk away. And I wake up.” He swallowed. “In a panic,” he added.

She frowned. “It doesn’t sound so bad,” she said, but there was a shadow of hesitance in her expression and voice.

“You’re crying,” he elucidated. “In the dream. You’re crying and I leave you there.” _And I’m crying_ , he thought. _And I can feel the pain even now, like a dagger through my stomach._

“Ah.”

 _Ah?_ he thought. _What kind of response is that?_

“You’re not crazy, Rafael,” she said. She read his expression and assured him: “It never happened. And I don’t think it ever could—I don’t think you would ever walk away from me if I was crying—but maybe your subconscious is telling you something. Maybe it _is_ time for you to leave. I said as much earlier, maybe the job has taken too much from you.”

“I don’t want to leave,” he said. “In the dream. It…hurts.”

She sniffed, pursing her lips for a moment. She raised her mug and sipped at the sweet liquid, and he watched the steam swirl before her face. “My nightmare is of you dying in my arms, yours is of you walking away. They’re both about you leaving me behind, aren’t they? Your fear of letting go, my fear of letting you go.” She blinked, and he could see the shine of tears in her eyes. “Of losing you,” she amended quietly.

“Please don’t be upset, I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just a stupid dream. Both of them.”

“You’re the best ADA I’ve worked with but you’re also the best friend that I have. It’s not the thought of you leaving your job that scares me. But I promise you, you don’t have to worry. If you think—or thought—I would give you a guilt trip if you decided to leave, I won’t.”

“Maybe I was afraid of letting you down,” he said softly, glancing sideways at her.

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“I hope you know you could never do that,” she said. “But—it’s probably unfair of me to ask this of you now, Rafa, but I wonder if you could do me a favor. Make me a promise.”

“I’ll try,” he said after a pause.

“When you get your memories back, don’t…”

He watched her, but she seemed unsure of her words. He’d been trying so hard to see himself through her eyes, to get a handle on the man he’d become—or she believed he’d become, anyway—but now he considered what he knew of himself and took a guess.

“Don’t pretend this conversation never happened?”

She smiled at him. “Something like that,” she said. “More like, don’t regret being so honest.”

“Am I not usually honest?”

“Oh, you are. You’ve never lied to me before today.”

He frowned. “Today?”

She gestured toward his head with her chin. “Shampoo.”

“Oh. Shit,” he said without thinking, and her smile widened. “Sorry. But it wasn’t really a lie.”

“I’ve worked with you long enough to know your tricks, at least some of them,” she laughed.

“And that was yesterday. Technically,” he added with a sudden grin that made her laugh again. “I should’ve let you do it. It feels dirty and I hate it.”

“It’s a little crazier than I’m used to, at the moment,” she said, eyeing his messy hair. “And I’m not used to the scruff, either—not this much, anyway.”

He glanced at her bathrobe and quickly away, turning his face forward to sip at his hot chocolate. After a while, he worked up a bit more courage and asked, looking at her from the corner of his eye, “Do I know the stories behind your scars?”

He held his breath, waiting for her response.

She drank her cocoa for a few moments. “The important ones,” she finally answered quietly.

“I’m sure they’re all important,” he said before he could stop himself. _Cigarette burns_ , he thought. She smiled down at her mug. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to—”

“We’ve never really talked about it,” she said. “And I don’t think I have the energy tonight, Rafa, but when you remember, if you want, then…don’t be afraid to ask me questions.”

He digested that for a minute as they drank in silence. He could feel the hot liquid settling into his stomach, filling him with a pleasant warmth that was more relaxing than the bath or the wine. “If you wanted to talk to me about something that happened to you and I wasn’t willing to—”

“It’s not that. You feel—felt—guilty. Responsible.”

He looked at her. “Responsible?” he asked, his stomach clenching. “Jesus— _should I_?”

She turned her head toward him. “ _No_.”

He searched her face for a few moments before nodding. He shifted the hot mug on his thigh. “Well if you…Whenever you want to talk about it,” he finally said.

She smiled again and touched his arm, lightly, briefly. “We should get back to bed,” she said softly. “I’m glad you told me about your dream, Rafael, I hope I could set your mind at ease a little bit.”

When she stood, he got quickly to his feet, setting his mug on the table and making an involuntary sound of pain in his hurry. She looked at his face as he stood in front of her.

“Are you okay?”

“Hug me, if that’s what you want,” he said.

She hesitated. “What?”

“If it’ll make you feel better,” he said. His cheeks were warm but he ignored the embarrassment. This didn’t need to be awkward. At least he was clothed this time. “It’s okay,” he assured her.

Tears shimmered in her eyes, threatening to overflow onto her cheeks, and he saw her chin quivering. She hesitated only a few seconds before stepping closer and wrapping her arms around him. She slipped her right arm beneath his left, but carefully—mindful of his sore shoulder—and he felt her hands at his back.

She tried to keep the hug light, in both pressure and tone—he could feel her attempt at self-restraint—but after a few seconds she exhaled a breath and tightened her arms around him. She pressed her face into his shirt near his collarbone, surprising him, and he tightened his own grip instinctively.

“Rafael,” she murmured against his shirt.

“It’ll be okay,” he said, and maybe he was trying to convince them both. He could feel the tension leaving her body—which was odd, since he could feel himself growing more tense with each passing second. He wanted to relax into her warmth and couldn’t allow himself to do so, so he did his best to ignore all the soft parts of her body that were pressed into his, and the alluring scent of her hair, and the moist heat of her breath through his shirt, and how damn much he wanted her.

Finally, she drew back and patted his chest, smiling at him. They were eye to eye, perfectly matched in height, with just inches between their bodies, and he had no hope of hiding from her bright and observant gaze.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll take care of your mug, go ahead and get some sleep.”

He took a step back; it felt safer that way, since he really couldn’t trust himself at all. “Goodnight, then,” he muttered, turning awkwardly toward the bedroom.

“Thank you,” she repeated, and he hesitated.

“I had a poster of Olivia Newton-John on my wall,” he said, looking back at her. He hadn’t meant to say it, but he’d felt the need to say _something_ substantial. “As a kid,” he clarified. “A teenager.”

“In the white sweater,” she said. She gestured toward her throat with a finger. “And the black necktie, she was sitting in the wooden chair.”

He swallowed, staring at her, unsure if he should be embarrassed or impressed or horrified.

She tipped her head a bit. “I’ve seen a picture of you in your old room. Actually the whole squad saw it. Carisi gave you hell about that poster because everything else was, you know, scholars and artists and literature. She looked sweet and innocent—you told Carisi that your friends had the picture of her in the rolled-up green shorts and yellow tank top, with the headband,” she said, now gesturing toward her forehead in demonstration. “But your mother never would’ve let you have that one, it was too suggestive.”

 _Jesus Christ_ , he thought. “Oh,” he said. _Oh?_ _What the hell kind of response is that?_ “I, uh…” He licked nervously at his lip.

“You remember the poster and that’s how you remember my name?” she suggested.

He couldn’t answer. He felt as though he’d unintentionally ventured too close to the sun. But he _had_ to answer, because he owed her _something_.

“I lied, if that’s what I told him. Yes, they had that poster, but anything else was just an excuse I used. I _wanted_ the one I had, my friends didn’t see the appeal, but—” He swallowed again. “I, um…I thought…” He drew a breath through his nose. “I thought she was perfect like that—she looked smart and kind and—Christ, I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m telling you this, I just wanted you to know it wasn’t a bad memory, what I used to remember your name.”

Had he told her how many nights he’d lain awake, staring at that poster? Had he told her about the fantasies—He supposed it didn’t matter if he’d told her. He’d been a teenage boy and she wasn’t an idiot. With his face flaming, he turned back toward the bedroom.

“Goodnight,” he said, barely resisting the urge to run into the other room.

“Goodnight,” she answered softly, and he cursed himself a hundred times before he’d closed the bedroom door.

 

*       *       *

 

She was astonishingly beautiful in the morning—for several seconds he actually found himself unable to draw a breath as he stared at her. He wondered if he’d gotten used to her beauty over the years; if he would get used to it again.

She seemed well-rested in spite of their late night, and he was glad he’d helped her get some sleep; that he could put part of her fears to rest.

He knew he looked like hell even before he saw the concern on her face. He’d been unable to get back to sleep until just before dawn, and then it had been nothing more than a fitful couple of hours that had somehow left him feeling more tired than when he’d gone to bed. The pain had been only a part of his struggle. A relatively small part, if he was honest with himself. Mostly it had been _her_ keeping him awake.

She didn’t know it, and she didn’t _need_ to know it.

“You look like hell,” she said.

 _I’m aware_ , he thought, only noticing that he was scowling when the movement pulled at his stitches; that only annoyed him further. “Yeah? Thanks,” he said.

“Do you need something for pain?”

“Am I not allowed to dose myself?” he snapped.

“Your doctor wants it monitored since you might forget what you’ve taken,” she reminded calmly. “We’re also supposed to do the memory exercises, when you feel up to it. Maybe after breakfast.”

He rubbed at the creases in the middle of his brow with two fingers, closing his eyes. “They’re pointless and only give me a headache,” he answered.

“Do you remember the names of any of your current clients?” she asked.

He opened his eyes.

“Then they’re not pointless, are they?” she replied to his silence. “I’ll help with your sling if you need. Do you want me to make eggs or do you want reheated Chinese for breakfast.”

He glared at her for a moment longer. “I’m going to take a shower,” he announced, turning away without ceremony and stalking toward the bathroom. His fingers itched to slam the door, so he pushed it closed with exaggerated care instead.

 

*       *       *

 

“I should probably just have an apology tattooed on my forehead by this point. Maybe it’ll detract from the scar these stitches are going to leave.”

Benson looked up from her paperwork and took off her glasses, setting them on the coffee table. After a moment, she leaned forward and set the papers on the table, as well, before leaning back on the sofa. “I don’t need apologies, I knew what I was signing up for when I invited you to stay here.”

“Me being an asshole?”

She smiled, but he knew that something was bothering her—something other than his rudeness. He’d learned to read her in a remarkably short time; or, he supposed, it was something like muscle-memory, a skill he hadn’t lost with his actual memory.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

She sighed. “Noah hasn’t been sleeping. Nightmares,” she said.

“A lot of that going around,” he answered, but his stomach clenched at the idea that he was the cause of the kid’s sleepless nights. “Is he okay?”

“Yes, I mean—he didn’t tell me, or Rollins, but she found him huddled up in bed at three a.m. after she heard a noise. I knew he was upset but I thought that seeing you and talking to you had reassured him…”

“He needs to come home and be here with you, where he feels safe and comfortable,” he said.

She regarded him in silence. “Yeah,” she finally agreed. “I was hoping to give you another day, but that was before I knew how upset he’s been.”

He frowned and shook his head. “Please, his well-being is more important—and I can sleep on the couch if—What?” he asked at the sight of her smile.

“Oh, nothing,” she said with a little laugh. “I’m glad to hear you say it, Barba, because I really thought you were going to argue the merits of going home and I was going to have to bribe or guilt you into staying.”

He was surprised into a laugh of his own. “Strongarm, maybe? I don’t think there’s any doubt which one of us would win.”

“Well, you’re injured.”

He snorted softly. “But not delusional enough to think it would matter,” he said, and she laughed—a real laugh that crinkled the corners of her eyes and lit up her face, a laugh that hit him in the chest and lodged itself there. “Not that you would,” he managed. “Force me, I mean.”

“No, not that I would,” she agreed softly. “But hopefully you’ve realized it’s in your best interest—”

“No,” he cut in, and she raised her eyebrows. “I just don’t want to have to make my own hot chocolate in the middle of the night.” He was rewarded with another laugh, as he’d hoped, and he grinned in response, doing his best to ignore the flutters of desire in his stomach.

“I see you washed your hair. And shaved. And managed to pull a shirt over your head. _And_ got your sling on. You’re making remarkable progress, Rafa.”

He’d come to enjoy it when she called him by his last name, but when she slipped over into _Rafa_ , it was something else entirely. Something that was somehow innocent and intimate at the same time, and there was always a warm look in her brown eyes that matched the sentiment.

He stuffed his hand in his pocket to keep from fidgeting nervously, and said, “Physically, anyway. We should probably do those memory exercises, if…” He glanced at the papers she’d set on the table. “Whenever you have time, if you want.”

“Rollins is dropping Noah off in a few minutes. If you want a chance to eat breakfast in peace, you should probably do that first. Do you want me to fix you something?”

“No, I’ll microwave the leftovers,” he said, chewing the inside of his cheek as he started toward the kitchen. “Thanks.”

 _You’re making remarkable progress_. All of those things that she’d mentioned—the hairwashing, the shaving, the dressing, the application of the sling—had been painful and time-consuming, but he’d used the pain and frustration as both self-punishment and a way of getting his emotions under control. He’d forced his way through the tasks with willpower and stubbornness.

Soon, he really would be able to go home, whether he had his memories back or not; his short-term memory was almost back to normal already, and he could take care of himself physically. He wouldn’t have to burden her with his presence for much longer.

He could almost convince himself that it was merely hunger, and not disappointment, in the pit of his stomach.

That argument didn’t hold up very well after he’d eaten, but by then Noah had arrived to provide distraction. The boy came into the apartment like a tornado, a swirling blur of energy in spite of his mother’s admonishments; the kid was overly-tired and Benson, in a low voice that only Barba could hear, predicted a crash before long.

Somewhere in the midst of Noah’s nonstop chatter and rapid-fire questions, Barba came to realize that Noah needed reassurance as badly as Benson had needed it the night before.

“How long are you staying? Does your forehead hurt? Are those stitches? Did they hurt? Are you gonna be here for Christmas? I made you a card, here, you can have it now. Where’s Eddie? Did you still forget stuff? Is your arm broken? How long do you have to wear that? Can I write my name on it?”

“Yes,” Barba said, the last in a quick succession of one-to-three syllable answers as he’d done his best to keep up with the queries lobbed at him from the antsy child.

“You know what, Noah?” Benson said. “Why don’t you go get your homework and we’ll leave Uncle Rafa in peace for a bit.”

Noah frowned at her. “I don’t wanna do it now,” he answered.

“Homework over Christmas break?” Barba asked. “How old are you?”

“Six,” Noah said. “How old are you?”

Barba laughed and opened his mouth, but his amusement quickly slid through unease and into panic, and he looked at Benson. _Jesus Christ_ , he thought, trying to do the math. _How fucking old_ am _I_?

She saw his panic, of course, and moved forward. “Don’t be rude,” she told her son. “Go get your homework.”

“But—”

“Now,” she said, and her tone—and the look she gave him—left no room for argument. Noah stalked off toward the other room, leaving Barba and Benson alone in the kitchen. She looked at the lawyer and said, “Don’t worry, you’re still younger than me.”

He laughed, and he felt some of the fear slide away. He didn’t need to panic; he wasn’t alone, and he had to remember that. She could answer his questions and, more importantly, her friendship could offer him a measure of comfort if he could stop acting like an idiot and accept it.

He also had to remember that it was nothing more, though.

“Besides, aging isn’t that big a deal. The first thing to go is memory, and you’ve gotten a head start on that…”

He laughed again, leaning back in his chair. “True. I guess I’ll be a pro by the time I’m however old you are.”

She laughed, too, but there was a touch of worry in her expression. Her next words explained it: “Sorry about him,” she said quietly, gesturing toward the other room. “He’s wound up. If he doesn’t go down soon, I’ll take him to the park to give you some peace and—”

“Don’t worry,” he cut in with a flick of his hand in the air. “I guess he’s worried about me.”

“Yes,” she agreed. She was about to say more when Noah came back into the kitchen with his backpack. His forehead was dipped into a scowl and Barba knew he was gearing up for a fight.

“I don’t _have_ to do this,” the boy said. “I have until—”

“Watch your tone, and I told you I wanted it done before Christmas so we can enjoy your holiday.”

“I want to talk to Uncle Raf!” Noah said, dropping his bag into a chair with a thunk.

“Uncle Rafael is tired and has a headache, Noah, he doesn’t need you shooting a million questions at him. You can talk later.”

“He might not be here later!” Noah said, his voice rising as he glared at his mother.

 _God_ , Barba thought, _I hope that’s not the way I’ve been looking at her_.

“Noah,” she said.

The boy opened his mouth, and Barba cut in before he could say something to escalate the situation: “Noah, maybe we can make a deal,” he said. He felt Benson’s eyes on him but kept his attention focused on the boy’s wide gaze.

“A deal?” Noah asked after a moment.

“Sure. I have homework that I don’t really want to do, either. But I have to,” Barba said.

“You do?”

“Yep. Maybe we can help each other out. If you help me with mine, then I’ll help you with yours. How does that sound?”

Noah wrinkled his brow, though it was in consternation rather than anger, now. “What kind of...I can’t help with yours,” he said. “I won’t know how.”

“Actually, all you need is a good memory. Do you have a good memory?”

Noah was still skeptical, but he said, “Yeah…”

“Mine’s not so great at the moment, _sobrino_ , so I need all the help I can get. Now, I don’t know if I’ll be able to help with _yours_ very much, what is it? Algebra? Calculus?”

Noah laughed. “Spelling,” he said.

“Ah, well, I’m a pretty good speller, luckily. So. Do we have a deal?” He stuck out his hand, and Noah looked from it to his face.

“What’s _sobrino_?”

“Oh. It means nephew.” Barba hadn’t really thought about it; he’d been unsure of what he might usually call the boy other than his name, and _nephew_ seemed like a natural response to being called _uncle_.

“Are you gonna be okay now?” Noah asked. “You don’t have to go back in the hospital?”

“Nope. Getting better by the minute,” Barba assured him, still holding his hand out.

“Promise?”

“I promise,” Barba said, not daring to chance a glance at the boy’s mother. He knew it was probably a mistake to make promises about things he couldn’t control, but he had to reassure the kid.

Noah put his hand in Barba’s, and Barba gave it a squeeze and a single firm shake to seal their deal. “Okay. Do I have to do mine first?”

Barba glanced at Benson for permission and received it in the form of a nod and a bemused smile. “First, you need to write your name on my cast. We’ll have to ask your mom if she has a marker. Then I think we have to do my memory exercises and then your spelling and whatever other homework you have.”

“Okay.” Noah reached out a hand and touched his fingers, lightly, to Barba’s wrist. “Uncle Rafa?”

“Yes, Noah?”

“Are you gonna forget about me?”

Barba’s stomach burned. _I already did_ , he thought with a surge of guilt that he knew was irrational; it wasn’t as though he’d done it on purpose, right? “Of course not,” he said. “And anyway, you’re going to help me so I don’t forget anything else, right?”

Noah smiled. “Right,” he said.

“Ask your mom—nicely—for a marker,” Barba said quietly, because he needed to get the boy’s attention onto something else for a moment so he could gather his composure.

While Benson was getting a Sharpie from a drawer, with Noah by her side, Barba took a moment to watch them. _Somehow, some way, they think of me like an honorary family member_ , he thought, still not quite able to wrap his head around the idea. He was afraid it was an illusion, something that would vanish with the return of his memories.

He was afraid it was an illusion because he found himself desperately hoping it was real.

 

*       *       *

 

Barba looked up from Noah’s homework and caught Benson watching him. She smiled before turning away, but she didn’t turn quickly enough to hide the look in her eyes.

 _She’s in love with me_ , he thought. The realization hit him abruptly and without warning, and it stunned him, freezing him in place and filling his head with a sudden buzz of overlapping, semi-coherent thoughts.

_How’d I not see it?_

_It’s so obvious._

_Why would she?_

_Wishful thinking._

_She can’t be._

_She shouldn’t be._

_She is._

_Was I in love with her?_ Am _I?_

She’d turned away from him, affording him a few moments to study her profile as she busied herself with dinner prep.

 _Yes_.

And suddenly it was relief that was settling into him, and he released the breath that had been trapped in his chest. _Yes_ , he thought again, and everything made sense: all of his jumbled feelings and irrational irritation, they weren’t because of the amnesia. Yes, he’d been frightened and worried and confused since waking in the hospital with a chunk of his memories missing, but it was _her_ that had been causing him the most stress and confusion, _her_ that had made him feel like he didn’t have a handle on himself or who he had become. Since she’d first walked into his hospital room, his brain had been at war with his heart and body, and he hadn’t understood.

Now he did. His mind might’ve forgotten, but the rest of him hadn’t.

He supposed he should be alarmed—there was obviously a reason they’d never done anything about their feelings, and he still couldn’t remember the details of their relationship; there was a very real possibility that one or both of them would end up heartbroken if they weren’t already—but he wasn’t. He felt nothing but the cool relief that was loosening the knots in his stomach and easing the tension from his body and lessening the thud in his temples.

She looked sideways at him, apparently feeling the weight of his gaze, and he quickly dropped his eyes to the paper before him. He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable; he’d already asked several times if they’d ever been more than friends, and she’d given him a definite _no_.

He wanted to know why, but there would be time for answers later. For the moment, it was enough to simply understand what he was feeling, finally.

“You’ve done very well, Noah,” he said, glancing over the carefully-printed words. “This letter is backwards, see? This way it’s a _b_ but it’s supposed to be a _d_. I’m going to erase it for you so you can rewrite it and then it’ll be perfect.”

Barba cast a look toward Benson, unable to stop himself, and she quickly turned her attention back to the can opener in her hand.

“Uncle Raf, where do you sleep?” Noah asked, drawing his attention. Barba looked at him; it was no wonder the kid was thinking about sleeping arrangements—he looked like he was two seconds from passing out and holding onto consciousness by sheer stubbornness. “You can share my room, if you want,” Noah continued before Barba could answer.

“He’s staying in my room and I’m sharing with you,” Benson said.

“Oh,” Noah answered.

Barba considered objecting and dismissed the idea. It was always wise to choose one’s battles, after all, and that was a fight he wouldn’t be allowed to win. Benson caught his eyes and smiled at his show of restraint.

 _Maybe it’s our jobs_ , Barba thought. _Or maybe it’s because of Noah. She’s a single parent. It doesn’t matter if she loves me or I love her, all that matters is what’s best for him. And she knows me, she’s known me for years, she must know I’d be a terrible father. Being a funny uncle for an hour and then heading home, sure, maybe I’ve learned how to do that, but_ —

He realized he was staring at her, and he pulled his gaze away. _Does she know?_ he wondered. He could feel her appraisal but he didn’t dare look at her again.

 _How could she not?_ he thought.

 

*       *       *

 

“Rafael.” She spoke softly, but Barba opened his eyes with a start, pushing himself partway up in bed. She held up a hand and grimaced. “Sorry,” she said quietly. She was framed in muted light from the other room, and it took several blinks of his eyes before he could bring her into focus enough to realize she was dressed.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice rough from sleep.

“I have to go,” she said. He could hear the apology in her voice, and he pushed himself the rest of the way up, letting the blankets pool in his lap. He was wearing a shirt, but not his sling. He glanced at the alarm clock and saw that it not quite four a.m. That meant it was officially Christmas Eve.

“To work?” he asked as his brain caught up to his eyes. “Is everything okay?” He ran his hand over his face, giving his head a little shake to get rid of the residual grogginess.

She shook her head, too, a small gesture that told him a lot—she wanted to tell him about the call she’d gotten, and under normal circumstances, she would. The horrors of her job were usually something they could share, but not now, not when he didn’t remember all the things he’d already seen. Without the protection of memory and experience, the callus of familiarity, she feared the truth would be traumatic. Even in the pre-dawn hours of Christmas Eve, when she was being called from her son’s side for an emergency, she was worried about protecting Barba from her life, from _his_ life.

“What can I do?” he asked quietly, reaching over himself to touch her arm.

She looked down at his hand for a moment. “I’m sorry to ask, but do you think you can keep an eye on Noah when he wakes up? I don’t know how long I’ll be.”

“Of course,” he said, wondering what the alternative would be. She couldn’t very well bundle the boy up and toss him in the back of her cruiser. He supposed the babysitter might be used to late-night and early-morning calls. “Don’t worry about us, I’m sure he can tell me what I’m supposed to do.”

She smiled at his attempt to lighten the mood and put her hand over his on her wrist. “Do you need help with anything before I leave?” she asked.

He shook his head, swallowing as he stared up at her. He wanted to swing his legs around, get to his feet, and kiss her; the desire shocked him in its strength, but it also felt familiar, now. He suspected it was something he’d felt frequently, and for a long time. He studied her face, wondering what her reaction would be.

Now was not the time to find out. Now was the time to be the friend she needed him to be.

“Don’t worry about anything here,” he said, drawing his hand back and settling it into his lap to keep himself from reaching for her again. “Go save the world and…we’ll be here when you get back.”

She lifted her hand and brushed his hair from his forehead, seemingly unable to stop herself. “Your hair’s getting long,” she murmured. She sighed and dropped her hand to her side. “Call if you need anything. Or text if you want me to pick up anything on my way home. Sorry to wake you, go back to sleep. He won’t be up for a few more hours.”

“Olivia,” he said when she turned away. She hesitated, looking back, but he’d blurted her name impulsively without any idea what else he meant to say. He dampened his lips and said, “Take care of yourself. And…if you want to talk about it when you get back, I’m here.”

He thought she was going to say something, but she nodded once instead and left him alone. Barba shifted the covers and turned, hanging his legs over the edge of the bed, and listened as she put on her coat and left the apartment. Once she was gone, he got up and padded quietly into the living room. She’d left a lamp on, and the tree was lit in an abundance of bright colors. He looked around. It felt strange, knowing she was gone. She hadn’t left him since bringing him home.

She’d been gone for two minutes, and he missed her. He missed her presence, and the knowledge that she was close by.

He walked carefully toward Noah’s room. The door was cracked, and he pushed it far enough to stick his head through the opening. By the glow of the nightlight, he could see that the boy was sleeping soundly, curled around Eddie the Elephant.

Barba returned to the living room and eyed the Christmas tree and the presents. There was no chance that he would be going back to sleep, so he wandered over to the tree and lowered himself to the floor with a grunt of pain that he allowed himself as there was no one around to witness the sound. He was curious about what he’d gotten Noah, and he pulled a stack of presents toward himself, reading the tags until he figured out that the ones in the blue and silver striped paper were from him.

He ran his fingers along the edges of the boxes, hoping the shapes would jog his memory. Looking at the paper, he knew that he’d wrapped the presents himself. He was surprised by the realization but didn’t doubt its truth. He’d gone to a store—he hadn’t sent an assistant, or ordered online, but walked himself into an actual store—and bought presents for the boy, and then he’d gone home and wrapped them himself. He’d written on the tags in blue Sharpie: _Merry Christmas, Noah. Love, Uncle Rafael._

His eyes and nose were burning, and his throat felt thick with unshed tears. _This is Legos_ , he thought, gently shaking a large rectangular box. He closed his eyes, trying to remember, trying to picture the package or the store or anything that could be considered an actual _memory,_ but he couldn’t grasp anything substantial. Nonetheless, he knew, and that was progress. Hopefully all of these feelings, the instinctive bits of knowledge, were precursors to the return of his memory.

 _He thinks Legos are my favorite_ , Barba thought. He opened his eyes and looked down at the box. _Maybe they are_. He carefully returned the packages to their rightful places beneath the tree and looked around at the other presents. There were three that had clearly been wrapped by Noah, and one of them had _For uncle Raf from Noah_ written on the paper. Barba picked it up and turned it over in his hands, looking at the sloppy edges and excess of tape, and he smiled. It didn’t matter what was inside; Barba loved it already.

 _I’m in love with her, but I love him, too_ , he thought. And then: _But they deserve better than me. What do I know about fathers and families?_

There was only one present under the tree for the lieutenant. It seemed to be a plate, wrapped messily and marked _To Mommy from Noah_. Something the boy had made in school, Barba assumed.

Most of the presents were predictably for Noah, but a couple said _Rafael_ on them. Barba felt a rush of guilt, because he didn’t know what, or where, her gifts were or if he’d even gotten her anything. He sighed and put everything back before struggling to his feet; this time, he kept himself quiet.

 

*       *       *

 

“Uncle Rafa, will you take me to a store?”

Barba raised his head. “I—what?”

Noah was staring at him, his young face full of solemnity. “I wanna get Momma a present,” he said.

“Oh, well, that’s nice, but I’m sure someone else…” He trailed off because he could see the disappointment in Noah’s face.

“Prolly not,” the boy said. “No one had time and it’s too late now. But it’s okay. I made her a plate but I wanted to get her somethin else. Somethin good.”

Barba felt like an ass. “I would, buddy, but I’m not sure your mom would like it if we went anywhere.”

“Oh, she wouldn’t care,” Noah said, brightening a bit as he saw a glimmer of hope. “Not if I was with you.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Barba said. _She doesn’t even trust me to leave the apartment by myself right now_ , he thought. There was no sense worrying the boy about his mental defects, though.

“Please, Uncle Raf?” Noah said. “I promise I’ll be real good.”

 _Well, hell,_ Barba thought, staring into the boy’s wide eyes. “I…will have to ask your mother,” he finally said. He knew this was a coward’s way out—to give her the burden of saying no, of being the bad guy, but he supposed she was more equipped to deal with the kid’s puppy dog earnestness.

“And then you will?”

There was no doubt in the boy’s mind that his mother would agree; Barba had doubts, and was afraid Noah was going to be sorely disappointed, but he nodded. “If she agrees,” he said, and he couldn’t help but return the kid’s smile.

 

*       *       *

 

There was a long pause from the other end of the line, and Barba felt compelled to fill the silence. “Sorry to bother you,” he repeated. “I told him I didn’t think it was a good idea but that I’d ask anyway.” He shuffled his feet, scowling at the bedroom wall, annoyed with the idea of asking her for permission to leave the apartment.

He knew that wasn’t really why he was upset, but he didn’t want to admit the truth: it didn’t matter how much she loved him if she didn’t think he’d be a good father figure for her son.

“If you don’t want to do it, you can tell him I said no,” she finally answered.

He opened his mouth and promptly closed it again, taking a moment to process that unexpected response. “I’m not looking for an out,” he finally said. “I didn’t think you’d want me…I could use some time out of here,” he admitted.

He heard her soft sigh and a rustle as she shifted; he could almost see her putting her hand to her forehead. He knew she was in her office, at least for the moment. She’d been gone for nearly eight hours already, and she still didn’t know when she would be able to return home. “I know,” she said. “I’m sorry I’ve left you cooped up. If you want to take him, then thank you, but don’t let him guilt you into it if you’re not comfortable or if it’s too much. If you do go, there’s money in the top drawer of my dresser.”

“Hmm,” he said noncommittally, thinking: _you shouldn’t have to buy your own Christmas presents from your kid_. “Well…I think we’ll go, then…if you don’t mind…” he said.

“Okay.”

This wasn’t the way he’d expected the conversation to go, and he hesitated. “I’ll text when we get home—back here, I mean, if you’re not here yet, so you don’t have to worry.”

“I won’t worry about Noah when he’s with you,” she said.

“No? What about me?” he asked in attempt to shake off the heaviness of his emotions.

He could hear the smile in her voice when she answered: “I might worry about you a little,” she allowed. “I’ll just have to trust Noah to get you home safely.”

He laughed, surprising himself; he had no idea how she always managed to turn his emotions on a dime. “Okay, well. I won’t keep you. Uh, be safe,” he added, wondering if that was a stupid thing to say.

Her voice was soft when she answered, “I’ll see you later, Rafael.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, and when she hung up he was left standing alone in her bedroom with that same pleasant warmth settling into his belly. He pocketed his phone and eyed her dresser for a moment. _Top drawer_. Socks and underwear, he presumed. He ignored his inappropriate curiosity and drew out his wallet, quickly thumbing through the contents to assure himself that he had both cash and cards.

He walked out of her bedroom as he slipped his wallet back into his pocket, and Noah looked up expectantly from his toys.

“Alright, kid, let’s go shopping,” Barba said, grinning when Noah hopped up from the floor with a sound of glee.

 

*       *       *

 

He knew he’d gone overboard. He couldn’t even really explain the impulse to himself, although he wanted to blame part of it on Noah and the kid’s damned contagious excitement. Plus, Barba couldn’t stop thinking about the Christmas tree with all of those neatly-wrapped and labeled presents stacked beneath, those presents for everyone except Benson.

Even so, Noah was struggling under the weight of the bags he was carrying, and Barba felt the sting of embarrassment as he surveyed the proof of extravagance. The boy hadn’t yet complained, as carrying the packages was just one of the duties he’d agreed to in order to secure himself an allowance from _Uncle Rafa_ that was sufficient enough to buy the necklace and perfume he’d picked out for his mother.

Barba was pretty sure she was going to hate the perfume, but Noah hadn’t been dissuaded by subtleties and Barba hadn’t had the heart to explicitly nix his choice. The necklace was pretty, though. It had felt natural to buy the matching earrings.

And the rest of the presents? Barba grimaced as he reached down to take the heaviest bag from Noah—a new set of plush towels, because hers were frayed at the edges and growing a bit threadbare, and it occurred to him now that she might be rightfully offended. What had he been thinking? He shook his head in disgust. He had no excuse, but it was too late, now. Not only were the presents already bought, they’d already been wrapped and labeled by the stores.

He didn’t suppose he could get away with claiming they were from Santa Claus or an anonymous admirer.

“I can get it,” Noah objected as Barba took the bag.

“I know you can, _sobrino_ , but I’m—” Barba stopped, swearing softly beneath his breath in a mixture of surprise and disbelief. He glanced toward Noah, who’d already moved several steps ahead of him on the sidewalk, and back toward the road. He swore again. “Noah,” he said, drawing the boy’s attention.

Noah turned, shuffling and crinkling his bags as he tried to keep them off the wet pavement. He looked at Barba, and then toward the road where Barba was pointing.

Noah’s expression shifted quickly from confusion to surprise to excitement, and he bounced in place with a rattle of bags. “Uncle Raf—Uncle _Rafa_!” he exclaimed, starting toward the road.

“Freeze,” Barba said sharply, and his voice stopped Noah in his tracks even before Barba put his arm in front of him. Barba looked up the street and swore again. “Take this back,” he said, and Noah pulled the bag of wrapped towels from his hand. “Do not move from this spot, do you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise,” Noah said. His expression was earnest, his voice sincere, but his little body was thrumming with tension.

Barba sighed. “Definition of insanity,” he muttered before darting toward the road with a wince.

 

*       *       *

 

“I don’t even know where to start,” Benson said.

Barba tried not to look sullen, but knew he was failing. He had no excuses for himself, and had to fight his instinct to go on offense in the absence of logical defense. “I might’ve gotten a little carried away shopping,” he started.

She glanced toward the freshly stacked presents and quickly away, shaking her head. She thrust a palm in the general direction of the tree and said, “Let’s ignore— _that_ , for the moment. There’s a _pigeon_ in my _apartment_ , Barba.”

“The thing is dumber than a rock, Lieutenant, it was going to get itself run over. It has a broken wing and I couldn’t just leave it there, not with Noah…” He trailed off, looking toward the kennel with a grimace.

“He said _you_ found it,” she said.

“Well, I…I couldn’t _not_ tell him, could I?” he asked, hating the uncertainty in his own voice. He had no idea what he was doing or why she’d ever allowed him to be around her kid.

He looked at her in time to see her expression soften as she regarded him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, because the last thing she needed was for him to add complications and drama to her life. She’d been gone for twelve hours, and he could see the exhaustion in the lines of her face and the slump of her shoulders. He’d told her not to worry about things at home, and then she’d come home to find an injured bird, in a cat kennel, in the corner of her living room.

“No,” she said, laying her hand against his arm. She sighed, shaking her head. “No, I’m sorry. I’m just…”

“Go lie down,” he suggested. “In _your_ actual bed, where you _fit_ ,” he added, getting a small, tired smile in return. “I’ll take care of supper.”

She looked past him toward Noah’s room, where her son was rummaging loudly in his closet for…something. “If I go to sleep now, I might not be up until morning,” she muttered. “I can’t do that.”

“I’ll wake you up if you want. Come on, Olivia, you need to rest. Don’t worry about the damn bird, Noah and I have been Googling what to do with it, and I’ll take it with me when I go—”

She leaned toward him abruptly, and he froze, catching his breath. She was still holding his arm, and she put her other hand against his chest. He thought she was going to kiss him, and his lips parted as he stared at her. At the last second, she turned her face, catching only the corner of his mouth as she pressed her lips to his cheek. His heart was slamming in his chest; surely she could feel it beneath her palm.

He started to lift his hand toward her arm, but she was already drawing back, turning, giving his chest a light pat as she said, “Thanks, Rafa. Wake me in a couple of hours if I’m not up, okay?”

“Yes,” he managed, his fingers missing hers by an inch as she pulled away from him. “Let me know if you need anything,” he added, watching her head toward the bedroom that he’d been using.

“I got it,” Noah exclaimed, hurrying out of his room with a plush toy clutched in his fist. “Look, Uncle Rafa, it’s a pigeon like HeiHei”

Benson stopped, looking back at them. “You named it HeiHei?” she asked, and her tone was somewhere between amusement and exasperation.

“Apparently it’s a chicken that isn’t very bright and eats rocks,” Barba said, giving her a look that said he clearly had no idea.

“Yes, I know,” she laughed. “From _Moana_.”

“I’m not sure he’ll want this in there, Noah,” Barba said, eyeing the stuffed bird.

“It’s a _New York pigeon_ ,” Noah answered, as though explaining this fact to someone who hadn’t yet grasped the point. “Ed got it for me when we went to Paris so I wouldn’t miss home so much.”

 _Ed Tucker?_ Barba thought, looking up and catching Benson’s surprised gaze.

“You remember that?” she asked her son.

“Oh, sure,” Noah said, with a dismissive shrug of one shoulder. He held the toy toward Barba. “Please, Uncle Raf? So he doesn’t get lonely?”

“Okay, we’ll try it,” Barba said, unable to refuse the boy’s heartfelt plea. He took the plush bird and started toward the kennel to give it to the real one.

“You sure you boys’re gonna be alright?” Benson asked, and Barba could hear the unbridled amusement in her voice, now. He looked over at her and she raised her eyebrows, smirking at him and his willingness to do her son’s ridiculous bidding.

“Sure,” Barba answered, giving her a dirty look in response. “Apparently the bird and I are twins, as Noah pointed out,” he added, lifting his sling a bit with his broken arm.

“You said the bird was dumber than a rock,” she reminded him, making a valiant effort not to laugh.

“Yeah. Well I actually got _hit_ by a taxi, didn’t I?” he said, and then she did laugh, shaking her hair back from her face.

“I really wish I’d seen you wrangling that thing and getting it into a kennel.”

“The wrangling was easy. I threw my coat over it and picked it up. But then…” He looked at Noah. “What did we do, _sobrino_?” he asked. “At _your insistence_.”

“We bought a cage,” Noah said.

“A kennel,” Barba corrected. “Where?”

“In a pet store?” Noah answered, wrinkling his brow.

Barba looked at Benson.

She put the pieces together and laughed again. “Cab?” she asked.

“Luckily one had already stopped while I was in the middle of the road picking up a pigeon,” Barba answered. “Would’ve been hard to flag one down, considering.”

“And then you carried the bird around the pet store?”

“Yep.”

“I carried all the bags!” Noah supplied with pride.

Benson glanced toward the tree and rolled her eyes. “We’ll revisit that later,” she warned, leveling Barba with a look that he could answer with nothing but a sheepish smile. Her lips curved in response, and she shook her head. “Just make sure you wash your hands if you touch it.”

“Okay, Mom,” Barba and Noah said in unison, and Barba grinned at her as she laughed. _God, I really do love her_ , he thought, overwhelmed by the feeling swelling within him. _There’s not a single doubt_. _Maybe I don’t want my memories back_. He pushed that thought away. He needed to remember his life, his job. He needed to reclaim those things not just for himself, but for her. Maybe she didn’t need him to be an ADA—there were plenty of ADAs in the sea—but maybe she _did_.

Benson was laughing, and Noah was giggling, and Barba thought: _I did that. For this one brief moment, at least, I made them happy._

“Wake me when dinner’s ready,” Benson said.

Noah and Barba looked at each other and Barba lifted his chin, opening his mouth. “Okay, Mom,” they repeated, Barba’s voice cracking with humor as Noah erupted into more giggles.

Benson was still laughing quietly as she slipped into her bedroom and pushed the door closed.

 

*       *       *

 

He watched her sleep for a few moments, but she shifted beneath his gaze, no doubt alerted somewhere in her subconscious to his presence . He supposed she could never truly let her guard down, even in sleep, and he had no desire to alarm her. His fingers itched to brush the hair back from her forehead, so he curled them into a loose fist.

“Olivia,” he said softly.

Her eyes opened and found his face in the dimness.

“Sorry, honey, I didn’t—” He stumbled over the words for a moment, realizing too late what he’d said. He finished awkwardly, glad she couldn’t see the blush creeping up his throat: “—want to startle you. Supper’s ready if you want. Otherwise, stay here and sleep.”

She shifted, stretching her legs beneath the blankets, and yawned. “No, I’m up,” she murmured, scrubbing a hand over her face. “Thank you.”

“I hope you slept well,” he said.

She looked up at him. “My bed smells like you,” she answered.

He grimaced. “Sorry.”

“It wasn’t a complaint,” she said, and his heart stuttered as their eyes locked and held. “I slept well. Where’s Noah?”

“He’s eating. He had doubts about my cooking so I may have struck a deal.”

“It smells good,” she said, pushing herself up and turning to put her bare feet on the floor. She was wearing sweats and a t-shirt, and her hair was a mess about her face. “Are you saying you bribed my son, Counsellor?”

“Of course not,” he answered. “We negotiated.”

“Hmm. What were the terms?”

“I agreed to help him bake cookies for Santa Claus.”

“So, he eats his dinner—that _you cooked_ , and that I would’ve made him eat anyway—and in return, you get roped into _also_ cooking dessert?”

“I’m a very good lawyer,” Barba said.

Benson laughed. The sound was huskier than usual, and Barba felt desire, hot and heavy, pooling in his belly. He’d thought she was beautiful in the morning, but nothing could compare to this, seeing her sleep-tousled and unguarded. “Yes, you are,” she agreed. “And a very good…uncle-slash-friend.”

 _Maybe I could be more. Maybe I want to be more_ , he thought. _I think I could do it, if you let me try_. “You have a roll of premade cookie dough in the refrigerator,” he said. “And it already has a reindeer face in the middle,” he added, taking a step back as she got to her feet. “So there are no messy ingredients, no cookie cutters, no decorating. Just slice and bake.”

“Yeah. I bought it on the way home, I knew he’d want to make cookies and I wasn’t feeling up to baking tonight.” She tipped her head, peering at him. “Did you see the dough before or after you agreed to this deal?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Are you questioning my negotiating skills?”

She smiled. “Never.”

He cleared his throat. “Okay, then. But let’s just say it was a relief when I went to get his juice and saw the roll peeking out of the bag you put in there,” he said, smiling crookedly when she laughed. She reached out and put a hand on his chest, and he quickly covered it with his own before she could pull away. He saw her lips part in surprise, saw her eyes rake over his face. He didn’t want to push, so he gave her fingers a brief, light squeeze before lowering his hand. “Do you want wine, juice, water, or milk?” he asked.

She swallowed. “Surprise me,” she murmured.

“Then I’ll see you in a few,” he said, backing away with a smile.

 

*       *       *

 

“I don’t _wanna_ take a bath.”

“You have tomato sauce in your hair and crusty cookie dough on your face,” Benson answered, her tone mild in the face of Noah’s defiant fists-on-hips stance. She sipped her wine.

“So what?” Noah asked. He was standing in the middle of the living room, glaring at her. Benson was on the couch. She was still in her sweats and t-shirt, with a glass of wine, and she seemed relaxed. Barba walked toward them from the kitchen. They’d finished the cookies for Santa, and he was feeling a touch of Christmas Eve excitement that he hadn’t felt since the early years of his childhood. He thought of his dark, silent, undecorated apartment and was fervently glad he wasn’t there, alone and miserable.

“And you’ve been hanging out with a filthy pigeon,” she added.

“I didn’t touch it,” Noah said. “Uncle Rafa wouldn’t let me.”

Barba stopped beside the couch.

“Plus, you stink,” Benson said, and Barba snorted softly at the offended look on Noah’s face.

“I don’t—”

“You do, and I have to sleep with you, remember?”

Noah scowled. “You don’t have to,” he said. “You could sleep on the floor.”

Barba could practically hear Benson counting to ten in her head.

“I guess I could,” Barba said, and Noah looked at him. “I mean, I know you didn’t ask to give up your bed just because I went and got myself hurt. I’ve taken advantage of your hospitality for long enough.”

Noah hesitated. “What’s _hospitality_?” he asked cautiously.

From the corner of his eye, Barba saw Benson sipping her wine. “It’s when you’re nice enough to welcome people into your home to stay for a while.”

Noah processed that for a few seconds, and something like alarm lit his features. “You’re not leaving, are you?” he asked. “It’s Christmas—”

“No, no, _hijo_ , I’m not leaving tonight,” Barba assured him. “But it doesn’t seem fair that you have to give up half of your bed just because your mom was nice enough to give up _her_ big, comfortable bed. She’ll be a lot more comfortable in her room and you won’t have to share, so I think I should just sleep on the floor.”

Noah looked at his face, trying to determine whether or not he was being serious. “But you’re still hurt,” he finally said, hesitantly.

Barba shrugged a shoulder. “That’s not your fault, or hers,” he said. “I’ll be okay.”

“I don’t want you to sleep on the floor,” Noah said.

“To tell you the truth, I don’t really want to, either, but if it’s a choice between _me_ sleeping on the floor or _Olivia_ sleeping on the floor, I choose me.”

Noah fidgeted, glancing at his mother. “Well…I could sleep on the floor…”

“I guess that’s a possibility,” Barba agreed. “If taking a bath is really that bad.”

Noah suddenly found himself facing two options: take a bath, or sleep on the floor. The boy chewed the inside of his cheek as he considered these choices, without questioning that they were the only two. “If I take a bath, will you read me a story?” he finally asked.

Barba saw Benson raise her glass to her lips to hide her smile.

“If you want me to read you a story, I will, bath or no bath,” Barba said.

Noah frowned as he realized he’d already lost the negotiation. The only thing left was to admit it, and Barba watched the boy fighting his own stubbornness. “Okay,” he finally answered.

“Okay?” Barba prompted.

“I’ll take a bath,” Noah said.

“I’m sure Santa will be pleased to know he’ll neither have to smell you, or step over you,” Barba said.

Noah looked at him, saw his smile, and giggled. “Can I have two stories?” he asked.

“Go get your pajamas while I start your water,” Benson said, pushing to her feet.

“Sure,” Barba told Noah, and the boy grinned as he turned toward his bedroom.

Benson handed Barba her wine glass and said under her breath, “Sucker.”

“But you have to read one to me, too,” he called after Noah.

“Okay!” the kid called over his shoulder as he bounced into his room.

Barba took a sip of her wine and smirked at her.

“I know,” she laughed, shaking her head. “You’re a very good lawyer.” She rolled her eyes as she started toward the bathroom, and Barba chuckled, watching Noah hurry out to join her with red flannel pajamas clutched against his chest.

Barba walked over to the tree, listening to Noah’s chatter drifting from the bathroom as Benson ran bathwater. He looked over the ornaments for a minute; there was a framed baby picture of Noah, and several ornaments that he’d made, as well as a few NYPD baubles.

Barba looked down at the presents, and he found that he didn’t regret any of the purchases. He looked over at the pigeon, silent inside its kennel. It was snuggled up against the stuffed bird, peering out at him, and Barba didn’t regret that, either.

“Should we talk about these presents?” Benson asked as she came to stand beside him.

He handed her the wine glass. “I have no defense,” he said with a smile. “Except that you deserve them all and more.”

She drank in silence for a moment, regarding the tree, and he watched the colors dance in her eyes. “You seem different today,” she finally remarked.

“Different, how?”

“Are you feeling better?”

“Some.”

“No headache?”

“No headache.”

“Maybe that explains the lack of mood swings.”

He smiled, looking at the tree. “Maybe,” he agreed. He could feel her looking at him.

“Rafael, I…”

He gave her a few moments, but she didn’t finish, so he turned his head toward her.

“Thank you for everything you’ve done today. With Noah, and…helping me—”

He bent his head forward and kissed her. He didn’t know he was going to do it, and he felt her surprise as their lips touched. His heart was suddenly slamming in his chest, and he felt her hand at his cheek. She didn’t immediately kiss him back, and he felt his stomach clench as he worried he’d made a terrible mistake. He started to draw back, and her fingers slipped into his hair, holding him in place as her mouth opened to his. He made a sound in his throat, stepping closer, settling a hand onto her hip as the simmering desire inside of him burst into flames, consuming him.

She turned her face away. “Wait,” she said.

He could see the emotions playing across her face. “I’m sorry,” he said.

She shook her head, meeting his eyes, and pulled her hand from his hair. “I can’t, not like this,” she whispered.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated, holding out his hand as she stepped back. “Please, don’t be upset. I didn’t mean—”

“It’s not your fault,” she said. “You’re not—You’ve been through a lot, and we’ve spent a lot of time together. It’s natural you’d be confused…”

“Confused?” he repeated.

“About what you feel, or—or our friendship…”

“Jesus, Olivia,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “If I misread, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you—If you don’t feel the same—”

“It’s not that—” She cut herself off, drawing a deep breath. “It’s not about my feelings,” she said quietly, holding his gaze.

“The hell it isn’t,” he shot back. “Your feelings are _all_ that matter to me right now.”

She shook her head, and he was horrified to see the tears in her eyes. He stepped toward her but stopped when she took a step back. “No,” she said. “My feelings are the same as they were two weeks ago and a year ago. But you don’t know _what_ you were feeling before the accident, and I can’t let you do this. I’m—going to help Noah wash his hair,” she said abruptly, turning away. She set her wine on the coffee table.

He opened his mouth to call her name and bit the sound back, feeling ill as he watched her escape into the bathroom. He cursed himself, closing his eyes and clenching his fist at his side.

 

*       *       *

 

After reading Noah his chosen books, and listening to Noah slowly read one to him, Barba had exiled himself to Benson’s bedroom so that she wouldn’t feel the need to avoid him. He’d been sitting on the edge of the bed, staring blindly at a Sudoku game on his phone, waiting for a chance to apologize. He knew that she was going to come to the bedroom when Noah was asleep, because she had Santa’s presents hidden beneath folded blankets in the trunk at the foot of the bed.

He looked up when she knocked on the door. “Yeah,” he said.

She seemed surprised to see him on the edge of the bed when she walked in. “I just need to get the…” She gestured toward the trunk.

“Yeah, I’ll help,” he said, setting his phone on the bedspread and getting to his feet.

“No, it’s alright, I can get them,” she answered, glancing at him as she moved toward the trunk.

He sighed. “Olivia, please, I’m sorry I ruined things. You don’t have to be nervous about me, okay?”

She turned toward him. “Nervous? I’m not—I’m trying to protect _you_ , Rafa.”

He stepped toward her. “I can handle the truth,” he said. “I don’t need protection. I thought there was—I thought you felt the same, but if I was wrong, then I promise it won’t ever happen again.”

“I do,” she said, so quietly that he could barely hear her. “I do, I have for a long time.”

He moved closer. “Then why—”

“Why do you—” She stopped, studying his face. “What were you thinking when you kissed me?”

“What was I _thinking_?” he asked. He debated for a moment, considering how much he should say. He decided he could be nothing less than completely honest. “I was thinking that I love you,” he said. “I do, I’m in love with you.”

He saw her grimace, saw the fresh tears pooling in her eyes. “You don’t even know me right now,” she muttered.

He held out a hand. “I don’t remember details but I know you,” he said. “I know I love you, it’s…a part of me. I—God, please, don’t cry,” he said, stepping forward. “Olivia—”

She crossed the distance between them, kissing him with a force that was almost painful. He wrapped his arm around her back, accepting her tongue into his mouth as she pushed him back toward the wall. When his back met the solid surface, he swallowed his grunt of pain, tightening his hold to pull her closer. He cursed the sling that had his arm pinned between them, and he shifted his bare feet on the floor when she slid her knee between his.

He couldn’t breathe, and he didn’t care. He wanted this—he wanted her—more than he could remember ever wanting anything in his life, and his body was hot, flushed with desire as she ran her hands down his sides and over his stomach. She turned her face away, drawing a ragged breath, and then she had hold of his hips and was pulling him away from the wall, steering him toward the bed. He went willingly, and when she pushed him onto the mattress, he pulled her down with him. She was kissing him again, and nothing else mattered. One of her legs was between his, and he knew she must be able to feel his body responding to hers; there were only two layers of sweatpants between them.

When she shifted, her weight settled onto his broken arm, and he broke away from her kiss with a gasp.

She lifted her head to look at him, and he could see realization dawning in her eyes. “Oh my God,” she said. She was going to withdraw, and he tightened his hold, desperate to keep her close. “I’m—”

“It’s fine,” he assured her quickly, but she shook her head, her hair tickling his chin as it fell around her face. He lifted his head, but she drew away. He dropped his arm to the bed, his stomach sinking as she pushed herself up.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t—We can’t do this.”

“Okay—okay, we don’t have to do anything, just don’t shut me out right now.”

“You and I would lock people up for something like this,” she said, waving a hand in the air as she started to pace.

He sat up with a wince. “What—”

“You’re not yourself, Rafa, you can’t consent. Not like this.”

“That’s ridiculous. I know what I want. I _am_ myself, even if I don’t—”

“You never wanted to cross this line before,” she said, pacing. “In six years you never—we never—”

“All the reasons I might’ve had, they’re gone.”

“They’re not gone,” she said, turning to face him with tears burning her eyes. “When you get your memory back—”

“And what if I never do?” he asked. “Am I never allowed to know how I feel?” His voice was raw, and his pain was almost too much for her to bear. She almost gave in. But she had to protect him from himself—and she had to protect herself from a decision he might regret.

“You will,” she said, walking over and clutching at the front of his shirt. “You will, and if you…” She swallowed, forcing herself to hold his gaze even though it was painful. “If you remember why you didn’t want this, _me_ , then I couldn’t bear to be responsible for you regretting—”

“Not wanting you isn’t possible,” he interrupted. “I might not remember why I never asked you out but I can only assume I put too much value on our working relationship. But I don’t care about that now.”

“Barba, you do. You care more than anyone and more than you’d let on.”

He made a sound of frustration and ran his hand over his hair. “Fine, then we’ll find a way to have both,” he said.

Her face started to crumple, and he stood automatically. “I want to believe that,” she whispered.

He held out his arm, and she stepped into his embrace, burying her face against his shoulder. “I know what I want,” he murmured into her hair. “I don’t know what I was thinking before, but these feelings won’t change. I’ll wait as long as it takes, I’ll prove it to you. Please give me a chance to prove it.”

She caught a sob in her throat, clinging to his shirt. “Rafa, I love you,” she said into his collar. “But I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t.”

“You can’t say that. You don’t know. If you feel differently when you remember, or if you leave your job—”

“Please don’t cry,” he begged. “We’ll…we’ll figure it all out together, I promise. Come to bed. Sleep. Things will look better in the morning. Here,” he said, pulling back and stripping off his sling without ceremony and flinging it toward the chair. He couldn’t stand to see her so upset; her pain was breaking his heart, and he didn’t know how to fix it. She wouldn’t believe him until he had his memories back, and he couldn’t control that. But he could comfort her, if she’d let him.

“What are you—”

“Come to bed,” he repeated. “Let me—let me protect _you_ for a change. I promise you’re safe with me.” He still wanted her; the proof was unmissable, and he knew she was aware of it. It didn’t matter, though. He held out a hand, and she put her palm in his, letting him tug her toward the bed. He put his phone on the nightstand and folded back the covers. He sank down onto the mattress, shifting over and upward, and was relieved when she crawled onto the bed beside him.

He stretched out on his side, and after a moment she put her palm against his jaw, searching his face. “Does it hurt to lay on your side like that?” she asked.

“It’s fine,” he said, reaching his good arm toward her. “Honest. Stay here with me. We’ll face tomorrow when it comes.”

She hesitated only a moment longer before curling toward him, pressing her face into his chest and letting him wrap his arm over her. “I’m sorry,” she said.

He kissed her hair. “It’ll be alright,” he promised.

 

*       *       *

 

She opened her eyes, and for a moment everything felt right; good. Barba was behind her, pressed close against her back, his arm heavy over her side.

And then she remembered that it was nothing more than an illusion. She’d allowed herself to be pulled into a fantasy life because it had given her everything she’d ever wanted. She’d selfishly clung to the idea, knowing it had the potential to break her heart beyond repair, but now she knew that her selfishness had hurt him, too. She never should’ve allowed things to get so far out of hand.

She was gathering her courage and strength to pull away when he spoke quietly. “Liv.”

Her heart stumbled at the sound of the familiar nickname, murmured in little more than a breath, and she closed her eyes against the stab of pain. “Yes,” she said, and her voice sounded almost normal; she hoped he’d attribute the roughness to the gravel of sleep.

“I did ask you out,” he said quietly. “Or at least I tried.”

She opened her eyes. “What?”

“Every after-work drink that I tried to stretch into a dinner, every lunch when I steered you somewhere, anywhere outside our offices. I was too afraid to put all my weight on the limb, too afraid of what I could lose, and you—you never miss subtleties.”

Her heart was slamming in her chest, now. She was breathing shallowly, afraid to move in his arms, struggling against the _hope_ trying to rise up within her. “You’re not afraid of anything.”

“I am. With you, I am,” he said quietly. “I’m terrified of losing you. I could feel you slipping away. You were saying _no_ more and more often, and I could accept just being friends, Liv, but I was so afraid that me asking was driving you further away, that I’d lost you by letting you know I wanted more—that I wanted _you_.”

She pulled away, and he drew back his arm to let her go. She pushed herself up and turned toward him so she was sitting, looking down at his stubbled face and tousled hair and bright eyes. She tried to find the words for the jumbled questions in her head.

“I remember everything, Liv,” he said softly, staring up at her with his casted arm beside his face on the pillow. “That dream. That stupid, awful dream, I was having it before the accident. I was trying to work up the courage to go—to leave, to transfer, to salvage what was left of our friendship before I made you shut me out completely. But I couldn’t do it.”

“You were going to leave?” she asked, her stomach clenching. “You…If you have your memories back—”

“You were right,” he said softly. “I do care about the job, what you and I do together to help people. But it wasn’t a fear of losing the job that kept me from asking you to love me, Liv. It was a fear of losing _you_.”

She knew he wasn’t lying—that he _wouldn’t_ lie—and yet she was afraid to believe. “I thought…” She paused, studying his calm expression. “I thought if I let you see how deep my feelings were, you’d pull away. It seemed safer to keep a little bit of space. I didn’t know you were asking me _out_ , Rafael.”

“I know,” he said, smiling. He reached out and ran his fingers over her short sleeve. “I took it for granted, you always seeming to be able to read my mind. Olivia, losing my memories of you was the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You said that trust is instinctive, but _loving you_ , that’s instinctive. It’s something I could feel in my bones. Something that can’t be taken away from me. Meeting you changed me, I just didn’t realize how much until I saw my life from the outside.”

“Meeting you changed me, too,” she said in barely more than a whisper. “But we don’t—We can talk about this when you’ve had more time, when you’re feeling better. We should celebrate your memory coming back and—and tell the doctor…”

“Liv, please come back down,” he said softly, pressing his palm against the cooling sheet where she’d been sleeping minutes earlier.

She could feel the tears burning to be released, but she was still afraid to hope. Right now, he might have regained his memories but they were still jumbled up with his feelings from the past few days.

But he was calm; there was no trace of anxiety or confusion in his eyes, and his expression was soft. She knew what he meant— _something I could feel in my bones._ That was how she loved him, from her core. With every bit of herself.

She shifted, slipping down slowly until she was lying on her side, facing him with her hand beneath her cheek on the pillow. He smiled, and her heart fluttered. “Having you here, seeing you with Noah and sharing dinner and breakfast, knowing you were never more than a room away…It was all I ever wanted,” she admitted quietly.

He lifted his hand and tucked her hair behind her ear before settling his palm on her shoulder. “It’s all I want,” he said, searching her face. “You did everything to protect me, to protect both of us, and I love you for it. But you don’t have to protect yourself from me. Let me protect you, Liv. Even though you don’t need it, I can take care of _you_ , if you’ll let me. You and Noah—”

“Stop talking,” she said, and he did. “Stop trying to sell yourself to me, Barba.”

“You misunderstand,” he said, and she could hear the amusement in his voice. “I’m trying to _give_ myself to you.”

She laughed quietly and, unable to resist, reached out to run a finger lightly along the edge of the new scar over his eyebrow. She’d come so close to losing him, forever.

“If you’ll have me,” he added in a murmur.

“I thought I told you to stop talking,” she whispered, laying her palm against his rough jaw.

He mouthed the word _sorry_ , grinning at her soft laugh.

“Rafael, I love you,” she said. “But I need you to think about this, really think about it, now that you remember the details of your life and _my_ life. Making breakfast and packing lunches, that’s every day. Being exhausted and still having to deal with tantrums over taking a bath, or ice cream. Missing work when he’s sick. Trying to help with homework when I can barely see straight. Some nights I can’t even change my clothes before I fall into bed. I chose this life and I wouldn’t change it for anything, but you, you deserve passion and spontaneity and—and romance that I just don’t know if I could give.”

After a few seconds of silence, he said, “Permission to speak?”

“Granted,” she answered with a small smile.

“Your life is busy, Liv. _My_ life is busy. I make it that way so I don’t have as much time to sit around my quiet apartment feeling sorry for myself.” His smile was crooked and self-deprecating, and she loved him so much that it hurt. “I can make breakfast. I can pack a lunch. I can negotiate with a six- or seven- or ten-year-old about ice cream privileges. I can reschedule meetings when he’s sick. Homework is my bread and butter. When I can’t do some of those things, you will, but you don’t have to do them all alone.

“And I can put you in pajamas and tuck you into bed and crawl in beside you and fall asleep with you in my arms. I can give you romance, Liv, and _spontaneity_ can be an unplanned trip to the zoo or a drive up the coast.”

“You forgot one,” she said.

“I didn’t forget,” he answered, and her breath caught at the heat in his gaze. “I don’t think it’ll be a problem.” He smiled. “Do you?”

“No,” she said, barely resisting the urge to push him onto his back. Noah would be up soon. But that only reinforced her point. Before she could drive that home, Barba continued.

“When the time is right. Noah will probably be up in about ten minutes,” he said. “I’ll distract him so you can put out the presents from Santa, and then I can make him breakfast while you shower, if you want.”

“Mommy!” Noah called a split second before opening the door.

“Make that ten _seconds_ ,” Barba said with a laugh.

“How come you’re in here?” Noah asked. Then, not waiting for a response as Benson rolled onto her back, he continued excitedly: “It’s Christmas, come on! Come, Uncle Rafa!” He crawled up onto the edge of the bed beside his mother, bouncing on his knees. “Come _on_ , it’s time for presents.”

“Breakfast, first,” Benson said.

“Momma!” Noah objected, stilling as he looked at her in horror. “But presents—”

“Noah,” Barba said. When the boy looked at him, Barba smiled and said, “Merry Christmas.”

Noah’s face split into a grin and he started bouncing again. “Merry Christmas!” he exclaimed. He grabbed his mother’s arm, giving her a shake. “Please can we open—”

“Take a breath, _mijo_ ,” Barba said. “The presents will still be there after breakfast, I promise. How’s HeiHei?”

Noah froze, his face registering surprise and then a combination of guilt and alarm.

Barba laughed quietly. “I’m sure he’s fine. Do me a favor and go check, and wait for me out there, okay? You and I will make breakfast while your mom gets ready.”

Noah considered. “Can I have chocolate chips in my pancakes?” he asked.

“Five chocolate chips per pancake,” Barba said.

“Twenty!” Noah countered.

Barba chuckled. “Seven.”

“Thirty!”

“Ten. That’s my final offer, take it or leave it.”

“Okay,” Noah said, hopping off the bed and racing from the room.

“Don’t touch the bird or the presents!” Barba called after him, and Noah made a sound of assent from the other room. Looking at Benson, he said, “I’ll keep his focus in the kitchen while you take care of the presents, and—”

She pulled his head down for a kiss, silencing him. He drew a breath through his nose, resting his hand on her waist as he pressed closer. He knew they couldn’t get carried away, not now, but he needed her to know how he felt.

After a few moments, she drew back and met his eyes. “Are you sure you remember everything?” she asked.

“Everything. Quiz me,” he said, and she smiled. “And I love you.”

She studied his face. “Will you let me wash your hair?” she asked.

He shifted his head back a bit, offering a startled laugh. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”

He laughed again, his whole face crinkling in amusement. “Have you,” he said.

“I’m glad you can do it for yourself now but also a little disappointed.”

Still chuckling, he said, “I can break my other arm, if you want.”

“Would you?” she asked, lifting her eyebrows.

“If that’s what you want.”

She patted his stubbled jaw. “Or you could just let me wash your hair out of the kindness of your heart.”

He grinned. “Deal. I told you I was a good lawyer.”

 

 


End file.
